


Acts of Non-Intervention

by eak_a_mouse



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Canon Typical Violence, Kidnapping, Multi, Rape/Non-con References, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-02
Updated: 2013-07-15
Packaged: 2017-11-17 13:48:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 9
Words: 36,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/552227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eak_a_mouse/pseuds/eak_a_mouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jackson's still a kanima and with Gerard dead, someone else has to step up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic diverges after Season 2 on the premise that Jackson is still the kanima. 
> 
> Trigger warnings: thoughts of suicide, suicide attempt, blood, memory loss, rape reference. Please message me if there are questions or if I should change my tagging!

Jackson remembers only fragments.

He remembers rain and cool glass against his palm and blood.

So much blood. He thinks that he shouldn’t know so intimately how it feels to have blood slowly drying on your arms, always stuck beneath your nails, so that every breath seems to stink of iron. He doesn’t think there is enough water in the world to wash him clean. Out, out damned spot, he half laughs to himself.

He remembers the feel of Lydia’s skin against his own, desperately grasping to hold onto that moment of lucidity before his mind drowned again. He thinks he would have begged her to help him if he’d had the chance to say anything more. He does not think of how easily he was beaten back, even holding on with everything he had. Does not think of the darkness, the lapses in time. 

Then it’s Danny and the sound of his own name in his ears. He thinks Danny is okay, that he warned him. Danny never hurt anyone. The kanima- no, he couldn’t have hurt Danny. There are rules, right? (He ignores the weird cock-eyed view of Scott’s bedroom and Scott’s mom that is proof that the rules were broken.)

He knows the feel of desperation, of despair so strong he turned his claws on himself. Disembowelment was not how he imagined himself committing suicide. He always thought it was going to be pills. The ones his adoptive mother kept in the medicine cabinet. He doesn’t think he’s better off knowing how willing he is to die. 

The next time he’s as much himself as he’s been in a long time, it’s to see that key. He’d known she’d kept it. He’s sort of still hoping she doesn’t quite know what it means. From the way she was holding it, like her last hope of heaven, like it was representing everything they’d ever been to each other, with tears in her eyes, he thinks she knows exactly what it means for him to let someone into the house. (Never his home. Never quite his. If you don’t know who you are, how much of a claim can you make?) It was stupid. The key was stupid. Trying to hold onto these impossible things. 

He remembers hugging Lydia and crying and not caring that anyone was there, until he had to pull back to breathe. Over her shoulder, Derek looked sad and determined and apologetic. It seemed so simple. Of course, of course they couldn’t let him-. He breathed deeply. Couldn’t let him live. This time he could make it gentler, on everyone. So, he nodded and pushed Lydia out of the way. Closing his eyes, he ignored the hurt look in her eyes. (The last time he’d see her and he was hurting her.)

He closed his eyes and waited for the darkness to take him down.

One last time.

___

The first thing he sees when he wakes up are the birds flying overhead through the faint gray light of false dawn. Then he feels a body beside him in the bed shift slightly. 

Instantly tensing, he squeezes his eyes shut, pretends to be sleeping. He didn’t think Matt or Gerard would have gone that far. (But, he’s in a bed and he doesn’t remember and he doesn’t remember.) 

He’s out of the bed, back slamming into the wall within seconds. Lurching forward he desperately scrabbles at the door. But even with his hand on the doorknob, he can’t-he doesn’t know what’s out there and can’t make himself leave this room. Because there is no escape anyway, and, he can’t believe he’s thinking this, but he should try to please whoever’s holding his leash now. Sobbing, he slams a hand over his mouth, hoping he doesn’t end up throwing up on the floor. 

He can feel when the fear and the despair and the slithering need to please coalesces into the transformation. Shuddering, he watches as the sweeping coldness leaves scales across his skin, waiting to lose himself.

Only he doesn’t, not even when he’s staring at claws, or when fangs distort his mouth.

He’s still present even as a monster.

Even when Lydia’s sleep rumpled form sits up blearily on the bed he’d abandoned. 

“Jackson?” She whispers, taking a step or two in his direction.

He hisses to warn her off, (Can’t she see he’s dangerous?) and takes careful steps away, belatedly realizing he’s backed himself into a corner.

He’s seen that look on her face before, but only in those few weeks where she lost her mind and he hadn’t quite lost his yet. She looks a little bit lost and a little bit frightened, and it doesn’t quite fit the Lydia he used to know. That head tilt, though? That means Lydia found a problem she wants to fix, to solve. 

She edges away carefully, non threatening and opens the door a bare inch, as though he’d run the first chance he’d get, and on the edge of yelling, calls out, “Stiles! I think we need you after all!”

Still wary, she moves back to sit on the bed to wait.

“What is it- Whoa! There’s an angry were-lizard in the corner.” Stiles comes barging through the door with his mouth already moving. Until suddenly, he ungracefully sits on the floor in front of Jackson.

It’s weird watching Stiles collect himself. Like all the spazziness, all that energy always around Stiles switches into this focus that was aimed right at him and his corner. Jackson catches himself edging backward and forward, trapped somehow beneath that gaze. 

When Stiles finally speaks, it’s eerily calm, the same way he asked about where Lydia was at homecoming. “Jackson, you’re safe here. We know about Matt and Gerard and it’s not your fault. Nothing that happened was your fault.”

Jackson can only shake his head back and forth. He’d done that. He’d killed people. Of course it was, is his fault. 

“Jackson, I need you to change back now. Can you do that?” 

Caught up in Stile’s voice, he loses the fangs and the strange vision at least. Only to cock his head at the noise of someone on the opposite side of the door. Wary, now, he can sense someone running too hot to be human. Cramming himself further back into his corner, he feels the change sweeping over him even faster. The next thing he knows, he’s hissing, tail swinging dangerously, at the werewolf framed in the doorway. 

“Derek! Not a good time!” Stiles nearly growls, before turning back to him once more. “Jackson, change back. Right now!” 

Then he’s human again, panting and whimpering in his corner. 

__

Mutely, Lydia hands him new sweatpants and a t-shirt to replace the ones he’d ripped through. 

Derek and Stiles’ quiet argument, narrated by Stiles’ hand gestures, ends with Derek heading back out of the room and closing the door with a click. 

They somehow fall into a loose circle on the floor. Lydia at his side and Stiles sitting mostly in the middle, closest to the door. 

“Right so, uh.” Stiles rubs the back of his neck. “Look, I don’t know how to tell you this, but Gerard is gone, probably dead. It broke the connection between the two of you. We were-we were hoping-.” 

Lydia takes pity on his apparent inability to find the right words, a first for Stiles. “We thought you might be able to control yourself. We hoped at least. But, we need someone-just in case. Stilinski here was nominated.” 

“No. No, no, no, no. Not again. Please not again.” Jackson hides his face in his hands, head shaking back and forth slowly. “Just kill me. I don’t care. Just. Please? Please.”

“Hey! I won’t be as bad as crazy Gerard or creepy Matt. I mean-those are sort of low standards. But, really, it’s not like that. I could pinky promise or something to use my power only for good.” Jackson just looks at Stiles blankly and Stiles seems to wilt. “Look, your options were limited to the wolves or a hunter or me. I’m not the worst choice.”

Jackson looks automatically to Lydia. He thought that she would have- She grabs his hand tightly and shakes her head. “Later,” she mouths at him.

Stiles just looks awkward, rubbing his hand over his head again. “Why don’t you sleep in? I think everyone is just bunking here. We can figure things out in the morning when normal people are actually awake. Okay?”

Lydia nods for both of them and helps haul Jackson to his feet.

“I’ll be here if you need anything.” Stiles adds, pulling the door closed behind him.

Jackson lets Lydia coax him back to bed. He carefully arranges his hands and teeth to be very far away from her. Only, she gives him that narrow eyed look like she knows what he was trying to do. Deliberately, she reaches for his hand.

He falls asleep with his fingers entwined in hers, unwilling to let go.

___

When he wakes up again, there’s the smell of something cooking and he doesn’t want to get out of bed.

Somehow they’d switched places, and he now has a face full of Lydia’s hair. It makes it easier to talk when she can’t see his face. 

“I would’ve thought that you would’ve-” He starts. “We’d kissed and I’m holding you now in a bed, so I don’t understand why-” you didn’t want me. He manages to at least not sound that desperate, as desperate as he feels, because he thought she knew how much she meant to him. Only, it’s not her voice that he’s going to be following.

He feels her stiffen in his arms.

“Can you believe that I would have if it had been safe?” She seemed to choose her words carefully. “I need you to believe that.”

He’s dangerous and he forgets that, although not dangerous to her. Never to her. He can’t imagine a time when he wouldn’t want to protect this, the feel of the two of them together. The quiet space when it seems that no matter what happens the world can’t come into this place with them. Not until they get out of bed. 

They’re all going to be here and, god, they’ll all know. At least I’m alive, he thinks and it’s less comforting than he thought it would be. Still, he groans and swings his feet to the cold wood floor. 

Have to face the world eventually.

___

Jackson gets downstairs to find that Isaac is making pancakes. Scott looks like he’s excited about the pancakes and Allison looks mostly like she’ll kill someone if coffee doesn’t show up soon.

Derek and Stiles aren’t part of this little group yet and Jackson finds himself unsure of whether he’s allowed to come in or not. He refuses to use Stiles Stilinski as a security blanket. That’s not how this works.

He edges into the room and takes over the ancient percolator. He can make coffee for himself and Lydia and then leave. It’ll be easy. Only, Isaac’s staring at him with clawed hands clutching the ladle of batter, Scott’s growling and edging in front of Allison, and Allison abruptly looks wide awake and itching for her bow. 

He can feel his own claws growing in response, which he can’t control, exactly. He very slowly, very carefully turns from the battered sink and raises his hands to shoulder height. “I’m not looking for any trouble.” 

He wants to laugh at the dramatic turn his life took. God, this was not what he wanted. 

And then Stiles is sliding around the corner of the door as though he sprinted to get here. Jackson can’t help but scowl as Stiles edges toward him. This was not his fault. Only Stiles doesn’t talk him down or try to protect the others from him. 

Nope, Stiles slides around so his back is to Jackson and with his arms wide, he speaks calmly to the others. “Okay, guys, I think we can all put the claws and growling away for now.” Isaac loosens up his grip, but keeps his eyes on Jackson. Scott takes that last step to put himself between Jackson and Allison. “Scott, stop that. C’mon, I smelled pancakes. I’m pretty sure we can keep the killing to a minimum until after breakfast. Okay Scott, I can see discussing killing might have been the wrong thing here!” Stiles quickly adds as Scott’s growling increases, eyes flashing. “But, honestly you need to stop that. I’m pretty sure Jackson is just making coffee.” 

Jackson nods hurriedly. 

Derek’s little alpha roar thing, breaks their tense standoff nicely.

In the ensuing silence, Lydia slips around Derek and takes over the coffee making from Jackson, pushing him more toward the beaten up table. 

Satisfied, Derek takes his own seat. 

Breakfast is an awkward affair.

___

Afterwards, Derek calls for training, so they all spill outside. 

“Scott, you and Isaac spar. Allison? You’re with Lydia. Jackson you’re with me.” 

Scott and Isaac both look at him confusedly, refusing to go more than a few feet away. 

“Get out of here,” Derek repeats.

Scott glances uncertainly at Allison, who quickly nods. 

“C’mon Lydia, we can see about teaching you to shoot, maybe.” Allison adds, dragging Lydia with her. 

Jackson catches the subtle nod toward him in Lydia’s hair flip and resigns himself to whatever this is. Stilinski’s sticking around, so probably this is to test out their new toy. He’s not particularly comfortable with that.

“Relax dude.” Stiles pats him on the back. “This is mostly to see how much control you have.” 

Derek waits for Stiles to get back to the porch, before, with a quick tilt of his head, he pops both fangs and claws. Jackson instinctually backs up a few steps and then steadies himself. He has some pride left, after all.

Derek roars and Jackson steps back again. Still, he refuses to let himself go so easily. While he can, Jackson just wants to have his mind and body, for a little while. So he fights back his fear and stops retreating. He keeps that numb feeling, that disassociation from his fear. If he can't feel he won't change. 

Only Derek, doesn’t stop advancing. His arm's raised to hit Jackson when Stiles finally calls out. “I think we’re done here.” 

Jackson gets just distracted enough scowling at the fact that Stiles gets to call the shots that he misses Derek's strike. It was obviously meant to be easily dodged even by a human, but Jackson doesn’t react fast enough. Jackson doesn't even realize he’s been hit until his face is burning from three long scores across his cheek. 

Hissing, he turns back on Derek, seemingly all of his anger poured into revenge for this small hurt. If they want the kanima, well here it is. 

He'd always done well with an audience. 

___

When Jackson "wakes up" next, he is lying on the moth eaten couch someone had bought secondhand and dragged into the Hale house. 

Awkwardly, he seems to be lying in someone’s lap and looking up, he quickly realises that Stiles is holding what is trying to pass for a washcloth to his forehead. He pushes himself off with a hiss and wobbles to his feet unsteadily, rubbing absently at his face with the palm of his hand. At least he kept the sweatpants this time.

“And there’s the douche-lizard we know and tolerate.” Stiles mutters. Jackson glares. Stiles sighs. “Nothing really happened. You and Derek fought for a bit, which was impressive because, honestly, it’s nice to see someone take his werewolf ass down. Only he got aggressive in making sure he didn’t get hit by the paralysis claws. So, we called it a day and waited for you to wake up.”

Jackson catches sight of brownish smears on his palm. It looks like- like all of his nightmares. “Stiles! I didn’t?” His voice breaks and he nearly flinches at how frightened it sounds.

“No, hey, whoa. That’s just from you and Derek and you both healed fine. He’s with Isaac and Scott. Everyone’s fine. Scales are just a bitch to get blood out of.” Stiles had that assessing look again. “Actually, subconsciously or consciously or whatever, you changed back on your own. And you avoided changing until you’d been attacked. That’s not half bad. We might even be able to release you on your own cognizance.”

Jackson is torn between wanting to walk away right now because he doesn’t owe them anything and desperately wanting not to be left alone again. There’s nothing so isolating as a murderous crime spree committed by your alter ego.

“We have to go back anyway,” Lydia adds from the doorway. “After your little kidnapping thing-”

“Not my brightest hour,” Stiles mutters, wincing a bit.

Lydia rolls her eyes. “Eventually we both have to return to society. Particularly since most people currently think Jackson’s dead.”

“No, that’s taken care of-sort of. You were released from the hospital last night and stayed at Lydia’s.” Jackson was not previously aware a face could scrunch up like Stiles’ is currently managing. “Scott’s mom took care of most of it, but it’ll still be a story held together with shoestrings and whatever in the water is keeping people from noticing the werewolves.”

There’s also arm flailing now and Jackson can just feel his eyebrow twitching. 

“Right.” Lydia gives her patented hair flip. “That’s the plan. We’re lucky both our parents are out of town. It’ll be easier to explain since they didn’t see you at the game.”

“And we’ll just hope everyone else is an idiot,” Stiles mutters under his breath. 

“So you’ll just let me leave,” Jackson finally says incredulously. “Just like that.”

“Well, yeah. Try not to shift and nothing should go wrong.” Stiles shrugs. “And if everything goes to hell in a lizard shaped basket, Lydia has my phone number. So long as you don’t uphold the restraining order, everything is golden. ‘Sides Derek will probably be creeping anyway.”

From the doorway, where’s he’s slouched against a doorframe, Derek half-glares at Stiles. “I’ll keep an eye out. We’ll deal with school when Monday comes.”

And then it’s easy, as unreal as it seems, to just drive away.

___

They’ve been driving for five minutes before Jackson gets up the nerve to ask if it’s later yet. But, Beacon Hills isn’t exactly big enough to keep procrastinating. 

“There must be a reason for why you didn’t.” Lydia barely flicks her eyes over to him in response before staring back at the road.

Jackson takes the time to look at her. She’s wearing skinny jeans and a comfortable sweater and for anyone else it could look like they dressed up, but Jackson’s gotten used to her wardrobe of short dresses and high heels, and this looks strange. Stranger still, her hair’s brusquely tied back and she’s not wearing make up, with smudges of mascara still beneath her eyes. He’s rarely seen her so undone outside of bed, but this- the two of them in her car is familiar enough to soothe his discomfort. At least enough to just let the awkward silence settle between them.

The rest of the ride remains quiet, but when he gets out of the car, Lydia follows him into the house.

For the moment, Jackson ignores her and goes to find a shirt. 

She somehow ends up curled up on his bed, staring at the ceiling. It’s eerily like the stupid video that started his part in this. Yanking the shirt over his head, he tries not to think

“You saw the alpha, the last time.”

“Yeah, Stiles needed a ride to the final showdown. Or whatever.” The silence is long enough for Jackson to think this story is over. 

“He did something to me on the field,” she says, almost dreamily, removed somehow from what she’s saying. “Something that let him in my head. It was just hallucinations at first. Then I lost days in the woods and then-” 

Jackson can see the way her hands form fists, the way her face smooths out into the mask they so rarely use with each other, and he knows whatever the alpha did has her wanting blood. 

“Then he haunted me. Until I couldn’t tell what was real and what was just in my head and he swore that if I didn’t do what he wanted, it would only get worse.” She finally meets his eyes and behind the anger is the clawing darkness of knowing how easy it is to give in, to let go.

“So I did,” she says with that smile that’s for when everything is wrong. “And he’s back and it might be worse than going crazy.”

They were never good at this, the touchy feely part when it wasn’t kissing or sex, but for once he only wants to give comfort when he hugs her.

“We did what we had to do to survive.” He can try to believe that, just for the moment, because he might have decided it wasn’t worth it, only to find out he can’t die anyway, but that doesn’t mean he ever wants her to do the same. 

She lets him hold her for a moment, and then she sits up and business-like removes a folder from her bag. Apparently, the comforting part of this evening is over. 

“What he had me do to bring him back shouldn’t have worked. It’s something about siphoning some of an alpha’s power to a follower. I’ve been researching it, and it’s meant to heal weaker members of the pack. Only Peter’s not a member of Derek’s pack.” 

“Peter?”

“Peter Hale. The alpha.”

“The alpha is Derek’s-”

“Uncle.”

“So Derek-”

“Slashed his uncle’s throat last time? Something like that. This time around Peter bit Derek to come back from the mostly dead.” 

“And Derek’s letting him live because- why exactly?”

Lydia waves a page in his direction. “Something about having the Hale’s bestiary and figuring out what was happening with your kanima when you knocked yourself out for the count.”

“Wait, what happened?” He’d just assumed he’d healed like every other time he’d woken up blood-soaked but unharmed.

“You grew a slime cocoon and then tried to grow wings apparently.” 

“I tried to grow wings.” It’s sort of sad that this is his life now. 

He watches her for a while. It seems like he’s always watching her. This time she’s organizing a pile of papers and he’s glad to see that she’s finally showing off what she can do. 

“I researched the type of wolfsbane he had me use on Derek and then I found whatever references I could to power dynamics in the werewolf packs and then I looked up resurrection in mythology and the Argents’ bestiary.” Each category had its own neat pile of printouts. “I concluded that he cannot sustain the healing that he originally managed using Derek.”

“So-”

“So he needs to become an alpha, and quickly, or he winds up back under the floorboards.”

“What?” He shakes his head. He’s not sure he’ll ever be able to walk around the Hale house normally now. “I still don’t understand why-”

Lydia stills, bustling paper suddenly silent. “If he gets back in my head, I’m not giving him you, too,” she says fiercely. “I am not giving you up that easily.”


	2. Chapter 2

There isn't much to say after that. 

Lydia has to return home to keep up the charade of having spent time at her place the night before. It’s strange being alone in the house after all this. He had been so very aware of having no privacy even in his waking moments just the day before. 

But here he is alone at night in his own bed, and no matter how tense he is, sleep comes for him in the dark. 

Jackson dreams of school corridors and the feeling of Lydia in his arms, her blood smearing down his shirt. He dreams of teeth on his skin and cool water calming the burning in his side. He dreams of drowning and the smell of gunpowder and screaming, always screaming. Frenzied and ugly and nothing like the horror movies because this time the monsters are real and death is at your heels. 

He wakes up screaming with fangs in his mouth and claws at his temple and he’s as sure as the night is long that his eyes are now slitted. For the first time, the transformation hurts, his jaw and his fingers an aching mess. But that helps, the pain, in focusing on where he is and staying here, staying present. As his gasping breath slows, everything else seems to come into focus and then it’s easy to be human, blunt fingernails and smooth skin.

It’s when he’s still running his tongue over his teeth and fingers through his hair to make sure he’s actually him, for once, that Derek steps neatly out of the shadows. It doesn’t seem like the familiar corners of his room should be able to hide his bulk, but then again, Derek lurks in locker rooms and lacrosse fields and burnt out houses. He looks comfortable with the way the shadows cling to him and Jackson wonders how long he’s been in darkness.

Jackson’s not sure what he’s expecting: a pat on the back for not turning into an overgrown lizard or a threat about what would happen should he put one toe out of line.

“Stiles will be here in five minutes. He’ll stay in case anything else interesting happens,” Derek says calmly. It helps, the nearly clinical air to his voice, like this is something they could deal with easily enough.

Then he does this weird shuffle thing, an almost imperceptible shifting of weight. “It will get better.” He adds, pitching his voice lower, like this is a secret. “The first time I shifted, I had my pack around me and I wouldn’t change back.” 

Jackson’s not quite sure if this is meant to be comforting or if Derek’s simply remembering. 

“So, what happened?”

“My mom wouldn’t let me have dessert until I was human,” Derek snorts, which almost counts as a laugh from him. 

Jackson doesn’t quite know what to do in response, so he stays quiet. This confession fits oddly with what Jackson remembers of Derek, which mostly involves being slammed into lockers and the feel of hands in his hair and claws on his neck. It doesn’t feel right to break this moment of Derek’s recollection and he waits for Derek to sort out his memories. The silence stretches naturally to fill his darkened room.

"It was never supposed to be like this," Derek says soft enough Jackson would have never have caught it if he'd been human. 

"It's a mistake," Jackson says and he means I'm a mistake. 

"No." Derek responds in an instant but he doesn’t say anything else. Jackson’s not sure what exactly Derek is denying, because from where he’s standing nothing seems to have turned out well. His own list of regrets is a mile long and growing longer, so he doesn’t know where Derek gets off saying none of it was a mistake.

Finally, with a sigh, Derek perches himself on Jackson’s desk chair, presumably to keep an eye on Jackson.

Derek may be here to keep watch, but Jackson is not so sure of his benevolence. Derek has always meant danger, even when he thought he could force Derek to give him what he wanted. He’s so very wary and weary and not quite ready to deal with whatever bonding Derek seems to want.

It becomes a waiting game after a while; Derek swiveling back and forth slowly in the desk chair and Jackson watching him with eyes half-closed. 

“Pack is supposed to be tighter than family. To the wolf, pack is as natural as breathing. Only it’s all gone wrong.” Jackson imagines he hears Derek whispering. But, it couldn’t be. Surely, it’s just a dream.

Jackson falls asleep before Stilinski even gets there.  
___

He wakes up slowly to light coming in through his windows. 

Derek, at least, seems to have disappeared from his room. Without the alpha’s intrusive presence, yesterday can just remain a hazy memory, for a while at least. 

Right up until he finds Stilinski conked out on his sofa. He looks like a sea lion, flopped out on his stomach and snuffling into the decorative pillows that Jackson knows from experience are scratchy as hell.

Apparently, when Derek said Stilinski would be sticking around, he meant all night. Jackson’s impressed at the kid’s dedication, then again, Jackson figures Stilinski’s getting a hell of a lot out of this deal. His own little murder machine if he wants it. Jackson watches him for a while and realizes this is the first time he’s been alone with Stiles without being confused or disoriented. 

Stiles doesn’t exactly look threatening. In fact, he looks too trusting. His bared scalp looks vulnerable, even if the hands beneath his cheek are larger than Jackson’s own. Right now, Jackson could do anything to him and maybe he even should. Preemptive strike and all that. Only, he didn’t last very long without someone there to rein him in. He almost hurt Lydia and definitely hurt Derek before Stiles called him off. He looks reflexively at his hands, but they’re pale and smooth and clean.

When he looks up again, Stiles’ eyes are open and calmly looking back at him. Or maybe Stiles had been awake all along. But he doesn’t move, and it feels like his quietness is a gift. Jackson thinks about trust again. He doesn’t know where to go from here.

“I didn’t want this,” Stiles says. Jackson scowls.

“And I did?”

“No.”

“No,” Jackson repeats sarcastically. And here they are again- impasse.

Stiles sits up, sliding socked feet to the floor, and wriggles his toes. “You could ask Lydia why. But, I didn’t volunteer. She told me to do it.” He looks up and there’s a certain resignation there. “It’s that look where you can’t say no. I could never-” 

He stops and scrubs his hands over his scalp. 

Jackson should really just let Stiles hang. He had just followed Lydia’s lead in ignoring Stiles’ stupid crush. Only here it is, waiting to be let out into the open, where Jackson’s not sure he’s ready to let it go.

“How much do you remember when you’re the kanima anyway? You were there for the whole thing.” 

“It- depends,” Jackson hedges. 

“Depends on what exactly?” Stiles asks all sharp-eyed focus again. 

“If I knew I wouldn’t be here, would I?” Jackson can feel the need to hunch down in submission, but he straightens his back and glares at Stiles instead.

Stiles doesn’t respond besides a glare of his own.

Eventually the silence stretches long enough that someone has to break it. Ever obstinate, Jackson goes into the kitchen instead.  
__

He’s halfway through making an egg white omelette when Stiles finally follows him. He looks slightly more awake. It also looks like he took the time to splash water on his face before coming out. Jackson raises an eyebrow, benefits of a buzz cut, he supposes. 

Yawning, Stiles mumbles. “I could tell you. The parts that I know at least.” 

Sliding his breakfast on to a plate, Jackson considers the offer. Information, presumably biased, but at least some account of what happened, probably in exchange for revealing exactly how much he doesn’t know. It’s a deal he can live with. He nods.

So Stiles talks. About the murder mystery and figuring out who the hell was the kanima and how to deal with that knowledge. Jackson pays up in black coffee and carefully ignoring the fact that most of the story was about figuring out how to kill him. He knew about the deaths. Even Beacon Hills, a town that somehow ignored all the supernatural goings on, reported on the victims in a series of articles hidden back on page four of the Beacon Hills gazette.

It’s different having them laid out in front of him, not some distant words in type, but things that he’d done. Lahey, the Argents’ lackey, the guy from the trailer park, the girl at the rave, and all of the deputies on duty at the time of Matt’s hold up of the sheriff’s office.

Gerard had been more subtle or at least made a decent attempt at covering his tracks. Jackson doesn’t think that makes him any better, just cleverer. Matt saw him as the means of taking his revenge. Gerard saw him as a weapon. There’s a difference somewhere in there, but to him it just meant being used as a thing, an extension of someone else’s will.

“That’s the kanima parts at least,” Stiles finished, stealing an abandoned piece of toast from Jackson’s plate. “I don’t know what else you missed. I don’t know what exactly Matt did.”

Jackson can’t be sure what Matt or Gerard did either. All he has is Stiles’ story, a handful of memories, and a box full of newspaper clippings hidden in his closet. At some point, he just wasn’t there anymore. 

It had all blended together somehow. At first, it had been Jackson and just a few lost hours, and that was scary, but it was only as bad as being black out drunk. It was easy to believe that it was nothing, that it would go away. But by the end, the times when it’d-he’d been himself were few and far between. He’d been clutching to his sanity with the edges of his fingernails, and he’s still not sure when it changed, when he lost all control.

It would be so much easier if it’s just other. If he could be sure there was absolute separation between him-him and the kanima-him. If the whole thing had just been dream-like memories delivered to him by someone else. It still isn’t smoothed over, the dissonance between him and it. Even after he’d watched the scales creep across his skin or the fangs fill his mouth. He’d always just gone away for a bit. Only yesterday morning had been different. He’d been there, at the front, even with claws and fangs and scales, though the lucidity hadn’t stuck around for the “training.”

Jackson isn’t sure it’s better to be wishing for the darkness.

“It’s time for you to go,” Jackson finally says. 

Stiles hesitates. “Tomorrow’s school and you’ve already taken out the library and the locker room. There’s a limit to how often we can explain away what happens.” He quietly adds, “Derek suggested training again today.”

And here’s the thing: Jackson may be a jackass, but he succeeds because he knows exactly how far to bend the rules. He could wheedle his way out of training, maybe if tomorrow weren’t Monday or if Stiles didn’t look like he was willing to force him and make it an order.

This is going to be a sticking point.

“3 o’clock at the Hale place. Okay?” Stiles asks.

“Fine. Out.”

Stiles leaves quietly, out of character enough that Jackson thinks maybe he should be worried. 

Only Stiles isn’t his to worry about. 

He washes up the dishes accompanied only by the ticking of the grandfather clock in the dining room next door. It’s nearly soothing, but there’s still that itch there. That need to get out and keep running and never look back. 

There’s nothing but bad memories here. Newspaper clippings in the closet he’s lucky not to have to add to for now especially after the last few days, blood down the drains that he can still smell on his skin, and disappointment that lingers in every picture his foster family’s framed. 

His hands are trembling when he grabs the keys. 

His tires skid across the asphalt when he pulls out of the driveway.  
Hands clasped tight on the steering wheel, he flinches, before hitting the gas.

And then he’s gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to my beta f-t-b-p on livejournal. Because she makes all the words line up in a way that makes sense.


	3. Chapter 3

He ends up at his tree.

It’s sort of embarrassing that he can pick it out from all the others adorned with the exact same industrial strength birdhouse. But here he is, kicking idly at the shards of his beer bottle and wishing he had something to hit.

Gently, he bangs his head against the rough bark and thinks maybe it would be best if he didn’t think anything for a while. Then again, if he meant to be not thinking, he probably should have chosen somewhere other than the woods, all drowsy in the sunlight. This is the kind of place Thoreau would have wet dreams about.

Most of his thoughts are still up in the air, circling like buzzards. Trying to lay them out flat is impossible. He remembers overhearing Erica and Isaac discussing plans to take down the kanima, and how he’d allied himself with Stiles and Scott to save Lydia, only to find out that Lydia never needed saving or rather needed saving from a different kind of dragon.

And then he remembers the truck and the feeling of metal around his wrists and ankles, and for all of Stiles’ sarcastically informative commentary, Jackson hadn’t believed him about the kanima, not really. A few hours of displaced time couldn’t possibly mean he was a murdering lizard monster.

He can remember so clearly the conversation he overheard with his ear pressed to the cold metal wall. He rolls his head back and forth trying to clear from his mind the easy way in which Stiles had said _Kill him_ and _It’s his own fault._

And that’s where things get- fuzzy. Because he’d wandered out of the woods mostly naked and shivering and the search team had taken him to the sheriff’s department. Wearing borrowed, too-big clothes, it had been so easy to be angry.

But then again, he'd trusted Scott and Stiles to protect Lydia. _He should have trusted them to protect him._ Only when he'd opened his mouth to deny everything or to lie -and lies were his bread and butter- he'd said, "I want a restraining order. A restraining order against Scott McCall and your son."

The voice that spoke was barely recognizable as his own. It was poisonous and bitter and filled with the howling anger he was careful to keep buried beneath irritability and hair gel and overly aggressive play in a contact sport. So there’s the trick. He was there and the words coming out of his mouth weren’t his. The sheriff looked at him with sadness and rubbed his mouth before agreeing quietly. Jackson ignored the thing hidden in his eyes. Scared of his own body and mind and cold and alone, he didn’t want any part of someone else’s pity.

He still doesn’t.

He doesn’t want pity or more training or to see Stiles’ stupid face one more time today.

Without looking at his watch, he knows he needs to be leaving soon, but it’s just so very tempting to not go anywhere. He could sit right here in the springtime sunlight that’s trying so hard to be summertime and not get up.

In fact, he could just slide down the trunk and tip his head back and not move for a while.

Just a little while.

___

He wakes up abruptly.

Disoriented, he rubs his eyes. The crackle of leaves underfoot startles him and clues him into what woke him. He’d barely finished standing up, before they’re right in front of him. Apparently, wolvlihood improves speed more than he thought.

Scott looks like the wolf suits him. A bare flash of golden eyes is the only thing to give away exactly what he is. Isaac, on the other hand, even slouched down behind Scott exudes a predatory air. Jackson’s unsurprised to see his awkward wave hello is with a clawed hand. He and Isaac might have less of a history, but Jackson feels just as wary as he is in Derek’s presence.

“You’re late,” Scott accuses.

“You can’t be late if you’re not going,” Jackson sneers. It’s so easy to fall back into this pattern. Right up until Isaac growls and Scott steps forward. Jackson takes a step back in response and his shoulder catches the trunk awkwardly enough to send him stumbling. Maybe it’s the way that his stumble looks too much like a flinch, but Scott and Isaac both stop abruptly, Isaac’s hand tight on Scott’s shoulder.

“We wouldn’t-” Scott starts, horrified. “It’s just-” His face scrunches up in a way that is surprisingly reminiscent of Stilinski’s own search for the right words.

“You have to have better control if you’re going back to school,” Isaac says. “We seem to have lost our supernaturally informed principal.”

“Pretty sure that’s better for everyone,” Scott responds, frowning.

“Yeah, well not for covering up the destruction of school property by somebody with a tail.” Isaac turns his attention back to Jackson. “So, you should probably be getting the whole lizard thing under control.”

“It’s a kanima,” Jackson corrects with a scowl.

“It’s going to put you and me and everyone else at school in danger,” Scott says.

"Ignoring the problem won't make it go away," Isaac adds.

"I don't come whenever Stilinski calls."

"From what I've heard of how this whole bit works, I'm pretty sure you do."

"Not helping Isaac," Scott interjects.

Isaac shrugs at Scott before returning his attention to Jackson. "You asked for the bite and you knew the risks. Not everyone's so lucky." Scott kicks at the dirt and bites his lip, but Isaac ignores him. "Suck it up, Whittemore," he continues.

“I’m pretty sure the risks did not include becoming a rampaging lizard monster and losing my free will.”

“Still yours to deal with.” Isaac slaps his shoulder and heads in the direction of his car. “If we hurry up, we can probably stop Stiles and Derek from killing each other.”

Jackson stares after him in disbelief. Scott just grins, making his crooked jaw more uneven looking.

“C’mon,” Scott says, slapping the same shoulder as Isaac. “I call shotgun!”

Jackson shakes his head and then finds himself following them.

God, McCall’s idiocy is catching.

___

The ride’s mostly awkward.

Jackson turns on the radio and tries his best to ignore the other two people in the car. Scott’s quiet in the passenger seat and Isaac’s just as quiet, although he seems to take pleasure in sprawling all over the back seat.

Both of them suddenly pay attention as Jackson takes the turn to the Hale house. If they’d truly been wolves, Jackson’s pretty sure their ears would have swiveled to face the house. It makes Jackson wish his powers were a bit easier to call upon. “What is it?”

“They’re still arguing,” Scott says.

Jackson would ask who, but as he puts the Porsche in park, Stiles and Derek come spilling out onto the porch, answering that question neatly. “Great. Those two.”

“So what are they arguing about, exactly?” Jackson asks as they all get out of the car.

“You,” Isaac responds, pushing him forward.

Derek strides to meet them and if anyone could walk angrily, it would be him. “You don’t get to disappear. When you don’t show up where you’re supposed to be or you don’t answer your phone, you could be doing anything.” He shoves at Jackson’s shoulders with barely any of his strength, but still, Jackson stumbles back. “Killing anyone.”

Scott edges between the two of them. “He’s here now. That’s good enough.”

Derek growls and Scott looks mutinous and Jackson is very much thinking of finding an escape route. Luckily, Stilinski interferes first.

“Oh my God, you guys.” Stiles pushes his way through both werewolves to get a hand on Jackson and then extract him. “You wanted to make him my responsibility? Fine, I’m being responsible.”

Stiles keeps pulling him, until they have the dubious privacy of the inside of the Hale House.

“Let me be very clear on this. When I asked you politely to be here, you agreed. Betraying our agreements is not the way to convince me that a hands off approach is best. Do you understand?” Stiles spoke quickly and quietly. It was the flint-eyed negotiator this time, not the kid that seemed to be made up of flailing and a lack of brain to mouth filter. Jackson thinks he wouldn’t have written Stiles off so quickly if he’d known this side of him.

That didn’t mean he’d make this easy. “You can’t blackmail me with that.”

“It’s not blackmail, it’s extortion.” Stiles sighs and rubs his forehead. “And frankly, until you get your change under control, I’m pretty sure I can.”

Wordlessly, Jackson growls and shoves Stiles into the wall. “No, you can’t.”

Stiles just looks at him and there is no pity that Jackson can see, but nothing that looks like compassion either. “I would like it if you let me go, Jackson. I would like it very much. But, if you feel like pushing this further, I can ask the nice werewolves outside to step in.”

Jackson backs off feeling sick. The initial rush of power had soured in his mouth. This was so tenuous. Because, yeah, Stiles could ask the werewolves to intervene. But, Stiles could also drop the pretense that he couldn’t just make Jackson do whatever he wants

“Look this is about protecting you just as much as it is about protecting us and the kids at school. Do you get that?” Stiles asks.

“Like you guys wouldn’t be better off if I was dead. Because this is all my fault, isn’t it!”

“So you heard that. Well that explains a lot.” Stiles throws his arms up in exasperation. And there’s the flailing.

“How much easier your life would be if you’d have just killed me? Yeah I heard all of that!” Jackson can feel the way his face is strained in a rictus that barely resembles a smile. It probably comes closer to a snarl.

Apparently, Stiles can be just as angry. “Oh, I’m sorry. Is your life worth more than the eight people you ended up killing after you ran away? No, you know what, of the six people you killed at the sheriff’s department three of them were parents, you little snake. Those kids lost their mom or their dad, because we decided it was better to save you than to kill you.”

Stiles seems to lose all the heat of his anger in one fell swoop, and he just looks tired when he says, “Then again, killing you didn’t exactly work either. I’m trying to do the best I can for everyone. Which means you need to figure out how to refuse to murder people. That’s what this whole training thing was supposed to be about anyway.”

“Fine.” Jackson spits out finally.

“Right, so, time to work on getting your free will back.” Stiles pats him on the back and then leads the way back out of the house.

Jackson shakes his head, questions his sanity, and follows after his- well, whatever the hell Stilinski is to him.  
___

When they get outside, Derek and Isaac and Scott don’t even pretend to not have been eavesdropping. Before Jackson’s done deciphering their expressions, Stiles claps his hands loudly.

“Okay, kanima training time. The big idea for today is to not go on a rampage if, God forbid, you end up changing into your scaly alter ego. Which means you need to figure out how to control what you do in lizard form. So, we need to actually have you turn into the kanima and the wolves can guard perimeter. I don’t know exactly how the whole transformation thing goes? Soooo-anytime now?”

“I don’t think that’s how it works,” Jackson admits.

“Matt said he took pictures of the people he wanted dead. Maybe the kanima’s connected somehow to imagining someone you want the kanima to go after,” Scott offers.

“I sincerely hope that a telepathic connection for homicidal tendencies is not the answer. Still, better than nothing.” He sort of squinches his eyes shut and then nothing else happens.

It feels awkward just standing there and Jackson’s eyes track from Derek’s scowl and Isaac’s relaxed stance against the house to the furrow in Scott’s forehead and back to Stiles’ confused expression.

This does not seem to be working.

He’s about to call it off, but then shivers. As he shakes, he recognizes the feeling as that of transformation. Staring at his arms, he can see the scales slowly take over his skin. His mouth feels overly full, and he’s sure his teeth look like a shark’s now.

There’s a deep desire to go after Derek and he slowly stalks toward him. Jackson can’t think clearly enough to remember why he doesn’t want to kill him. His center of gravity seems lower now, and it feels like he could drop to four limbs if he needs the speed or the traction.

A voice calling his name aloud brings him back, at least partially.

“Jackson!” Stiles yells again. “Okay, don’t kill Derek.”

Derek growls. However, the need to go after Derek disappears and Jackson’s left purposeless, pacing a tight circle.

“I might not have thought this through,” Stiles murmurs. Some part of Jackson thinks _What an idiot_.

“You need to set up a controlled experiment,” Isaac says. “Although it’s not really possible with only one test subject. You’re testing the effectiveness of commands, right? So, you need to vary who is giving commands, presumably only Stiles should be effective, and then vary the wording.”

Scott and Stiles gape at him.

“What? I like my biology lab.” Isaac shrugs. “Okay, Jackson, wave your hand.”

They wait, but he doesn’t feel any sort of compulsion and no handwaving occurs. Nothing happens when Scott or Derek give it a try, either.

But when Stiles says, “Wave your hand.” Jackson can’t stop the movement of his arm. “God, that’s creepy. Stop waving.”

Jackson stops. He feels a sense of embarrassment and outrage, but it’s muted, as though through glass. He thinks he’ll have greater regret tomorrow or whenever he’s him again. The thought’s confusing in this form. When is he ever not him?

“Fine,” Stiles says. “He only obeys commands from me as far as we know. Okay. Vary the wording. Right.”

So, Stiles adds a please and Jackson waves, disjointed and slow.

“It looks like that doesn’t work as well, but it’s still some kind of command,” Scott says.  
Stiles tells Jackson to stop waving and then asks, “Um. Would you please wave your arm?”

Jackson barely waves for an instant before he stops. Agitated, he turns his back to Stiles. He wants to hide. Stiles swallows hard, swings his arms awkwardly, and says Jackson’s name one more time.

“If you would wave your arm please,” Stile says. And this time it’s only a short half wave. Even that aborted motion is so damned irritating. Jackson hisses, but that doesn’t convey what he wants to say.

“Jackson, I would like it if you would wave your arm please,” Stile says in a dull monotone.

“Screw you Stilinski,” Jackson coughs and it doesn’t sound like him. Doesn’t sound like much of a voice at all. But, it’s stronger when he says, “Screw all of you.”

He stumbles, and he catches himself with hands on the ground. But, it’s a hand, his hand, not scaled or clawed. Human again, apparently.

“Congratulations. If you’ll excuse me,” Stiles says and then he flees. As Scott and Isaac converge on him, helping Jackson to sit down and breathe, he watches the back of Stiles’ hoodie disappear on the trail back to the main road. The line of his back is tense and Jackson feels uneasy.

With a sharp glare at Jackson, Derek directs Scott and Isaac to spar with one another again. He sharply gestures for Jackson to stay there, before bounding off after his betas. Jackson takes a moment to simply breathe. To be human.

But, honestly, obedience was never his shtick, well, present circumstance excluded. With a brief glance at faint sunlight, sneaking through the overwhelming cloud cover, he shoves his hands in his pockets and figures Derek won’t notice if he just takes a quick walk. If that walk happens to be in the same direction as the one Stiles took, well, what a coincidence.

___

He walks for a while. Long enough to feel uncertain that he took the right path, but not long enough to give up. Then he hears a voice faintly up ahead. He walks quietly, maybe not with the intention of eavesdropping, but certainly leaving the possibility open.

There’s a voice that sounds masculine, and then one that’s feminine responds. He blinks because that’s Lydia. Lydia and Stiles and he moves close enough to see. Incidentally, close enough to see means close enough to hear clearly.

“-not just imperative statements or straight out commands. It’s questions and suggestions and thoughts, Lydia. Thoughts!” Stiles scrapes his hands over his scalp. “He doesn’t want me doing this. And the thing is, I can’t explain why I’m doing this! I don’t-why did you pick me? God, he was cradled in your lap, and no one knew what to do and you just said I had to and-Why me?”

Stiles’ frantic pacing slows and he stands there for a moment, breathing hard. His hands clench and unclench at his side. His breathing slows and he finally turns around to catch Lydia’s eyes. Stiles’ face is flushed and he looks miserable and wrecked.

“Lydia, please,” Stiles pleads softly.

Lydia is sitting calm and collected on the hood of her car, legs crossed neatly at the knee and hands cradled in her lap. She looks unmoved, but Jackson can see the tension in her jaw, the set to her gaze. “When people were willing to kill the kanima-”

“I was willing to kill the kanima!” Stiles interjects. “Maybe not until we knew for sure who exactly was the kanima. But I would kill to save others. I said we should kill Jackson. I said this was on him. I was-”

Lydia just waits for him to wind down, a frostiness to her glare. Finally, Stiles stops and motions for her to continue.

“When people were willing to kill the kanima to save others, your little group decided saving him was better-”

“That was Scott!” Lydia just glares and Stiles shuts up, miming zipping his lip. “Please continue, Lydia.”

“When your little group decided saving him was best, you were the only one who came up with a viable plan to protect everyone, including Jackson. Just like you protected me.” Her tone is almost wistful. “If I couldn’t trust myself, I had to find someone who could do what was needed. I trust that you’ll do that.”

Stiles’ lips twist into a bitter mockery of a smile, and it doesn’t seem to fit his face. “But do you trust me?”

“Just look what I’ve entrusted to you.” She reaches for Stiles’ hand and uses it to haul herself to her feet. “C’mon. Let’s go.”

Jackson takes that as his cue. With one last glance back at them, as Stiles and Lydia move to the car, Jackson takes a shortcut back to the Hale house, desperately unwilling to be seen.

He has something to think about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks once again to my beta, f-t-b-p on livejournal for helping me rework this into something I could keep.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: There's canon typical violence in this chapter. 
> 
> Thanks again to my lovely beta, who has shifted to A03 as fightingtheblankpage.

He manages to escape being appointed a babysitter from the rest of the pack, although his parents' attempt at "reconnecting" is suffocating enough. He takes refuge in his room after a dinner punctuated mostly with the sound of silverware scraping plates.

His dreams are ordinary. Something about warmth and pressure and safety that's forgotten easily enough when he wakes up.

Still, the feeling of being anchored insinuates itself into his mood. It's enough to make the other werewolves' hovering bearable. At least they _try_ to be surreptitious. Stiles seems to be caught between giving him his space and being ready to intervene when he goes rogue. His constant attention quickly ruins any optimism Jackson possessed.

He makes it through the day with no incidents. It feels almost normal, even if it involves catching up on all the work he missed during his lost days. It seems the kanima was kind enough to turn in assignments but not kind enough to leave memory of what the hell those assignments were.

To top it all off, Danny's avoiding him. It's not accidental, they have too many classes together for that. No, Danny's picking seats on the other side of every classroom and blatantly going out of his way to be anywhere but the cafeteria during lunch. It’s disconcerting.

He's looking forward to lacrosse practice and the opportunity to work off some lingering anger. And possibly corner his best friend. Lacrosse was- is - his thing. His parents might push, but lacrosse was something he had made his own. He likes being captain- fine, co-captain, not just for the status in school, but for the way he could lead the team. It's the opposite of the kanima thing, and it feels like stretching atrophied muscles.

Only, Isaac is waiting by his locker, Scott's smaller bulk beside him. "Tell coach you pulled a muscle or something," Scott says urgently. "It's not safe for you to be on the field."

"Just tell them there's side effects to your miraculous return from the dead," Isaac suggests.

"What? No! I'm playing. You can do your knitting on the sideline, but I'm practicing, _co-captain_."

"Dude, last time you lizard...ed out! You nearly took out the team!" Scott edges closer and gives him a look so earnest that Jackson wants to sign him up for the Boy Scouts. "It's not worth killing someone."

Jackson just looks at him incredulously. "You have no leg to stand on. You guys both wolfed out on the field! _You_ nearly took out Danny and _you_ definitely took out half the team." He punctuated his accusations by poking them both in turn.

Stiles finally drifts over to complete the three musketeer team. "You're right. They both screwed up. It doesn't make it okay for you to make the same mistake. If you wouldn't mind Jackson, please...consider not participating."

The amount of thought Stiles put into his words is simultaneously comforting and terrifying. He was being so careful, but it just drives home how easy it would be for him to slip. To make it an order and take away any choices Jackson may have. Stiles sighs and it seems heavier. "If it makes you feel any better, I'm on the bench, too."

"Why? You don't exactly fit into the group of supernatural monsters."

“Well, I don’t know. Maybe because you end up a lizard if I think angry thoughts.”

Jackson can’t refute that, exactly.

"So we just sit on our asses?"

"And cheer the team on." Stiles tries to approximate the sharp arm movements of a cheerleader. "Go team go!"

"Yeah, no. Get your stuff, apparently we're training."

"What?"

"If I can't play lacrosse, then I will fix this whole-" Jackson waves to encompass the kanima mess, this- whatever the hell this is between them. "Thing. Which probably means I'll need you there. Now, move."

“Touchy. Geez,” Stiles mutters. “Fine, Scott can cover for me. Right, Scott?”

Jackson doesn’t even bother stopping long enough to recognize Scott’s confused nod before they hightail it out of there.

___

That’s how Jackson ends up following Stiles’ piece of shit jeep all the way to the Hale house, which is apparently the designated training ground. He supposes that just picking a random spot in the woods would be less than satisfactory, especially now that he knows what goes bump in the night, and the subway station is ruined for other reasons. Reasons that he feels fine keeping from Stiles. Someday, he’ll tell Derek that venomous reptiles can in fact be affected by their own venom.

And if his nightmares of blood and claws are occasionally spiced with mirror shards and leather gloves, well, he’s not telling anyone.

His thoughts are interrupted by the squeal of Stiles’ brakes. Jackson pulls up beside him and together they walk up to the sagging porch. Derek doesn't appear to growl at them or yell at them to get off. It feels almost like intruding, which is stupid because the bones of his past had already been laid bare; Derek's worst memories are there for everyone to see. Standing on the burnt floorboards isn't going to magically offer insight.

Stiles doesn't look discomforted. He looks like he has just as much claim to the space as anything else in the woods, like Derek doesn't scare him. Stiles leads the way to what might have been the living room once. Now it’s just four burnt walls and an equally charred floor. There’s a cleared space in the center and Jackson carefully doesn't look too closely at the scattered remnants of walls and furniture and that litter the rest of the area. Stiles takes a seat on the floor and crosses his legs into the shape of a pretzel.

Jackson isn’t exactly sure what he’s meant to do. He tries to peer through the smudged window before giving up and just standing there awkwardly, waiting.

“You might as well sit down, dude. Today is learn how to not turn into a monster day.” Stiles motions impatiently until Jackson ends up sitting cross legged in front of him. “Right, so sit there and clear your mind and focus on breathing or something soothing.”

“That’s it?”

“Look, I don’t really teach a meditation course; I assumed you could figure some of this shit out on your own. Just breathe deep, or something.” Stiles switches to muttering under his breath, “I, in the meantime, have to figure out how to mentally decide to kill someone, God.”

Jackson mostly watches Stiles’ face. He swears that Stiles is made out of play-doh sometimes, because a face is not supposed to do that. When Stiles peeks over to see what he’s doing, Jackson quickly closes his eyes and tries to think peaceful thoughts. Maybe oceans or mountains or meadows. Something serene and tranquil. Possibly with less running water. He shifts to lift the pressure off his bladder. And then his elbow is itchy.

Stiles pops an eye open and _shushes_ him grumbling all the while. Which is ridiculous, because normally Stiles is the bundle of energy. Maybe Jackson is leeching that from him like the kanima-him borrowed Matt's fear of water.

He finally falls into some kind of rhythm, his breath keeping time. In through the nose, wait, out through the mouth, wait, begin again. The cycle is soothing and beneath it he can hear his blood rushing.

He stretches his senses.

There's the sound of Stiles' pulse and the smell of whatever he had for lunch buried beneath the sweet smell of the house, which to his ears seems to be either slowly falling apart or settling into a new order.it's exhilarating, these senses coming in clearly for the first time. He can hear himself laughing somewhere where he's left his body far behind.

He pushes out further, beyond the walls and into the trees. Nothing escapes his notice: flora and fauna, from birds to the bees to the scent trails left all around the lawn. He swears he can sense a spider spinning her web. And then there’s something coming on a breeze, a scent that has him desperately searching it out. Apparently the idea of territory doesn't just belong to wolves, because something is _intruding_.

His eyes pop open and everything is still sharper, brighter, clearer than before. “Something’s wrong. Someone’s coming.”

Stilinski’s staring at him. “Dude, you have-” He sort of gestures to Jackson’s everything.

“We don’t have time for this! There’s a werewolf out there and he doesn't belong here!” Only there are noises now from all around the house. Jackson keeps swinging his head trying to pinpoint where the other wolves are or even how many of them are out there. He lowered his voice, trying not to be overheard. “There’s more than one. We need to get to the cars.”

“Come out, come out wherever you are!” is called from outside the house. “Or we’ll huff and puff and blow your house down.” Stiles and Jackson can hear raucous laughter in response.

“Seriously, Stiles, we need to go.” Jackson whispers and grabs his arm to get him to _move_.

“No.” Stiles slips out of his grasp and flips it to grab Jackson’s wrist and raise it to eye level. There are fine scales half covering his arm. “You can’t go out there.”

“I can’t stay here!”

“Yes, you can. Stay here.”

From outside the house, they hear, “We know you’re in there little piggy. Come out and play!”

With that determined look that Jackson is beginning to equate with self-endangerment, Stiles throws Jackson his phone. “Call Derek. And Scott!”

Then he leaves, the bastard.

Snarling, Jackson grabs for him, and when that misses, makes to go after him. Only to be pulled up short.

He could hear Stiles casually say, “So, hello, hi-”

Not waiting to hear more, Jackson starts dialing. “Pick up, pick up, pick up.” Scott’s phone goes to voicemail. “Oh, screw you, Scott. Get to the Hale house, Stiles is in trouble.”

Derek’s cell won’t stop ringing. “Well, that was worthless.”

From outside he can hear Stiles calmly say, “-right well, this is all very fascinating, but I’m very sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.” But his heartbeat is still racing.

Jackson hisses under his breath. Then he dials a number he knows by heart. She picks up on the first ring. “Lydia! Get help now, there are wolves at the Hale house, and it’s just me and Stiles!” Without waiting for a response, he hangs up.

Fucking hell, being unable to do anything is nerve-wracking. He listens as hard as he can to whatever is going on outside, a million nightmare scenarios springing to mind.

“I’m sure we can settle this matter peacefully. I don’t want any trouble now,” Stiles says. The sound of gravel underfoot makes Jackson think Stiles is retreating, thank God. Between the two of them, only one can get back up if-when the werewolves get in a lucky shot. And, hint hint, it’s not Stiles.

“Really, guys,” Stiles continues. “I can just get a message to Derek for you. Just leave a name and number after the beep and we can all go on our merry ways, yeah?”

Only the footsteps coming toward Stiles aren't slowing and the way the other wolves are panting for blood doesn't make Jackson think it’s going to be quite that simple.

“Oh, that sounds like such a good idea!” The alpha-- he must be an alpha to try this-- claps his hands like this is a game. “Maybe a message is exactly what Derek needs.”

Stiles’ heart kicks into high gear and Jackson thinks whatever is coming, it’s not going to be good.

He’s right, because Stiles squeezes in an “Oh God” right before the meaty thunk of a fist meeting someone else’s body. There’s a second and a third, and then it stops. It sounds like Stiles falls without someone keeping him standing. Jackson clenches and flexes clawed hands and desperately wants to be able to hit the smug fuck right in the face.

For a long moment, the only sound is Stiles’ ragged breathing. Then Stiles seems to drag himself upright. “Funny, people keep trying this. But, I think you’re sending the wrong message.”

“Oh?” The voice has turned sickly sweet. It leaves Jackson’s skin crawling. There’s so much menace in that one little sound.

“You’re trying to say that you’re coming for Derek and that you will do whatever it takes, and look just how easy it is for you. Do you know what I hear?” Jackson can hear Stiles spit and cough. He’d probably split his cheek on his teeth. “I hear a challenge. I hear a reason to work with people I’m not fond of. I hear a reason to see you burn.”

There was a strange whistling sound that Jackson can’t place at first. Not until he hears the werewolf groan, and break the shaft of the arrow.

“And there’s the cavalry,” Stiles mutters, before scrabbling away. But not to the house, damn it. Not to where Jackson can protect him.

Now that Jackson knows what to listen for, he recognizes the familiar sounds of Lydia’s car, Scott’s growl, and Allison’s crossbow.

Heh, cavalry indeed.

It’s a stand off. Faced with a pack, not the empty house or the lone wolf they’d been expecting, the alpha’s pack startles and moves to attack.

Only the alpha stands still. He just stands there and laughs. The laughter rises to something high-pitched and grating. “This will be more fun than I thought!”

There must have been some signal because the other wolves move back to the trees and turn to run.

Jackson lets out a deep breath. Safe, they are safe. It almost feels natural to watch the scales shrink back to smooth skin.

And he wants out. _Now_.

“Stiles!” he yells.

“Not now!” Stiles yells back.

“I’m going to kill you!”

“Yeah, take a number!” Stiles says under his breath. More loudly, Stiles asks aloud, presumably aimed at Scott, “Are they gone for real?”

He must give some kind of signal or sign, because Stiles sighs and just breathes for a long second before saying, “Jackson, go wherever you want to.”

 _Finally_.

The feeling of being tethered disappears. He gets outside just in time to see Lydia punch Stiles just beneath the sternum. Stiles folds like a sack of flour.

Both Scott and Allison move towards him in alarm.

“Not. Cool.” Stiles wheezes, waving them off.

“I thought I made it clear, Stilinski.” Lydia glares at him. “Exactly what this arrangement was meant to entail. You may not use this for your own convenience.”

Jackson moves to her, and wraps her in his arms.

“Dude,” Stiles coughs out. “Derek and Peter both know what a kanima is. I will be really happy if the other werewolves don’t figure it out, because let’s remember what happened to the last two kanima masters.”

Lydia considers him for a long moment, before nodding. “Fine, then.”

“Who the hell were they?” Scott asks, breaking the moment. “And were they all-”

“Alphas?” Allison finishes. Jackson notices the wicked looking bow at her side and tries not to feel too impressed.

“Looks like it,” Stiles says. “Which means someone’s been keeping secrets. The alpha --Wait, what do you call the alpha of an alpha pack?”

Scott shrugged. “An alpha alpha?”

“Does it really matter, Stiles?” Allison asks, hiding a smile.

“Right, the alpha alpha said this-” He gestures to his face. His cheek is already swelling and his split lip looks painful even from here. “-was a message for Derek, but I got a feeling this wasn’t first contact. Which means Derek must have known they were around.”

Scott frowns. “I can call Isaac. He might know something.”

“I think- I think I should tell my Dad, too,” Allison says careful and unsure. Jackson thinks that she’s still paying for her mistakes. He might not know all that happened, but he knows that at the last battle, she was on the wrong side. He thinks she’ll be paying for a long time.

It’s Lydia who nods in agreement first. “If this is over territory, it could get bloody. We’ll need all the help we can get.”

Stiles adds, “If they’re willing to hurt me, then I doubt they follow the code. We’ll need Derek too, though, and I don’t know how that would work.”

“If we did it before, we can do it again. Derek can deal with his thing with the Argents,” Scott says, shrugging.

“So, good job, team. We can meet tomorrow and figure it out from there. I think that’s it. And break?” Stiles says.

Lydia tosses Allison her keys. “I’ll catch a ride back with Jackson and pick my car up later.”

Deftly catching the keys, Allison nods. She and Scott head out, leaving just Jackson and Stiles and Lydia.

There’s an awkward silence before Jackson asks, “Master? Really?”

“It’s what the bestiary called this.” Stiles waves his hand between Jackson and himself.

“I think I’d like to read that.”

“Lydia has the translation.”

Jackson raises an eyebrow, twisting to look down at her. “Archaic latin,” she explains.

“Ah.” He doesn’t think he’s used to this side of her in public. It had always been test scores hidden in her notebook and college level textbook on her bookshelves and statistical software on her computer. It feels almost obscene to have that in the open now.

“So, that was working, right? Before the werewolves bit,” Stiles asks.

“Yeah. I could hear and smell everything.”

“You turned into the half-kanima that Matt used,” Stiles points out, before wincing.

Jackson wonders if they’ll ever be able to mention Matt and Gerard’s names like any other. For now, it still feels raw. “It feels more in control. Everything is instinct with the other one.”

“I don’t think I forced the transformation this time. I mean, did you want to kill someone?”

“Not really? It was easy, like breathing. There wasn’t that pull.”

“Congratulations. It looks like meditation is now in our future,” Stiles says. “Meet you here after school tomorrow?”

Jackson and Lydia nod and with a last glance, Stiles leaves in his jeep.

“I’m coming next time,” Lydia says out of the blue.

“Yeah,” Jackson sighs. The silence between them is companionable, not fraught with tension and danger. It’s- nice.

And then it’s them, in a car, and it feels so familiar. It’s the start of a hundred dates and a thousand moments just between them alone.

“Stiles was clever,” Lydia finally says above the softly playing pop music. “Keeping you out of sight. The alpha pack doesn’t need to know what you’re capable of.”

“Just because I get why he did it, doesn’t mean I like it.”

“Would you have stayed out of sight otherwise?”

“Probably not,” he answers slowly.

“Then he protected you.”

“And himself.”

“For the moment, protecting him is protecting you.”

It’s quiet for awhile, the only sound someone singing about night making way to morning and clinging to hope.

“You know, I’m almost impressed,” she says, finally.

“By what?”

“If you were still stuck-” She pauses.

“Yeah?”

“Then it means, even when he was getting his ass handed to him, he didn’t-”

“What? Cry like a girl?”

“No!” Lydia swats his arm. “He didn’t ask you to take the wolves down. He didn’t even think it.”

Jackson tries to imagine taking those hits, every single one intended to visibly hurt, and not trying to take the way out. To still be willing the person who might have protected you to stay hidden, to stay safe. It was impressive.

“I underestimated him,” Lydia muses.

The rest of the ride is silent.

It’s only pulling into his driveway that Jackson recognizes the car on the street. Before he can think about strategically retreating, Danny stands up from his seat on the front steps.

“I think you and I have something to talk about.”


	5. Chapter 5

There are moments in time when it's possible to catch a glimpse of all the futures that may be. Threads unraveling from the present into the ether. 

Jackson hears Danny say, "I think you and I have something to talk about" and he can see all the ways this could play out. He could tell Danny about the werewolves and he might keep his friend or lose him when Danny finds out exactly what the kanima did. The other wolves have been surprisingly sympathetic to the division between Jackson and the kanima, but Jackson has a sneaking suspicion it looks different from the outside. And that's only if Danny believes him in the first place. 

He could lie again and keep lying. And maybe that’d be easier, but he’d always imagined some far off future when Danny would simply know and accept the craziness in his life. Here is his chance, all cued up.

Predictably, Lydia’s the first one to recover. “Perhaps it’s best if we discuss this inside.” She moves to shoo them off the porch, but Danny stands his ground. He has that look on his face that Jackson remembers from Lacrosse. Danny’s the best goalie on the team because when he stands his ground, nothing moves him. Only this time Danny stares long and hard at Jackson, until Jackson's unsure what Danny can read from his face, before he turns to lead the way into the house. 

___

They sweep inside and Danny doesn’t stop until they reach Jackson’s room. He takes Jackson’s lone desk chair, leaving the bed for Jackson and Lydia.

Jackson gingerly takes a seat in the metaphorical spotlight. Lydia stands by the window instead and Jackson misses her warmth by his side. No one wants to start this conversation so for a moment, the three of them form a silent tableau. 

Jackson might have titled it _Girl at the Window_ or maybe _Lovers Betrayed_. It had been the three of them: a friend on his right and his love at his left for a long time now. He doesn't want to start and he pleads with his eyes for Lydia to take this from him. Only Lydia stares steadfastly out the window; Jackson may be hers, but Danny is not. 

Danny breaks the silence before Jackson can try. "Whatever you're involved in, man, I can help you get out." Jackson stays silent, partly because he’s pretty sure Danny can’t and partly because this was not the opening salvo he was expecting. He’d have thought werewolves would figure pretty heavily into Danny’s initial reaction. 

“Is it drugs?” Danny continues. When Jackson doesn’t speak up, Danny sort of huffs. “Look, man. Whatever this is? It left you in the hospital.” 

Danny starts pacing. “No worse, because I followed the ambulance and when I got there, they were telling me you’d been taken to the morgue because you were dead on arrival.” He comes to a stand still. “You were dead! And Lydia, who I thought would be as upset as I, is just gone! Disappeared! Only come Monday, you’re both sitting in class like nothing had ever happened!” 

__

Danny waits for a response, any sort of response from Jackson, but Jackson has nothing to give him. This is not what Jackson had expected. It’s the truth in a way, but missing all of the pieces that might lead Danny to find out exactly how supernaturally exciting his life had become. But Jackson had started at just this point, and look where he ended up. The futures he imagined seem to have narrowed down to one. Danny would find out. Danny would not let this go. And knowing Jackson’s luck so far, Danny would be introduced to the supernatural world in the worst way possible. At this rate, probably with Jackson’s claws at his neck. Again. 

 

So Jackson takes a deep breath and fixes his gaze on the wall and starts talking. 

“Do you remember what I said to you before the game?” Jackson’s own memory of their conversation is of a fixed point in the gray sea, an instant when the sound of his name blew away the fog from his mind. It had been a moment of clarity when he desperately needed it. 

“You told me to run from you.” 

“Yeah, I wasn’t safe then, I was-am dangerous.”

Danny looks like he wants to protest, but it’s Lydia who says, “Stop that.” 

She moves from her spot by the window to slide easily into the space by his side, as though she was always meant to be just there. “You would never hurt us, Jackson,” she murmurs, folding his hand into her own. “You love us too much to do that.” 

Jackson wants to believe that maybe she knows best exactly how powerful love can be. She’s the one who brought him back with just the sight of their key, isn’t she? But, then again, this, whatever beauty and beast scenario they’re playing out, is just trial and error, and any error could be deadly when they’re playing with a mythical monster. Gently, he disentangles their fingers and needing space, takes his turn at the window. 

“It’s- this whole thing is dangerous, and this is your chance to stay in the dark.” Jackson looks Danny in the eye for the first time since they’d walked into the room. “It might be safer if you never know.” 

 

Danny’s wearing his determined face again. “No, I want to know. Whatever it is, if you’re this caught up in it, then I want to know.”

“Right.” 

Lydia smiles wanly at Jackson and it gives him the strength to keep going, to set the wheels in motion. 

“I can’t explain everything, but I know who can. I’ll-” Jackson simply breathes for a moment. “I’ll arrange for a meeting. Do you know where the house in the woods is? The one that burnt up when we were little?”

Danny nods briefly. 

"Then I'll meet you there in an hour."

For a moment, in the silence and closeness this still untold secret has created between them holds them hostage. Finally, with one last look at the two of them, Danny shakes his head and leaves quietly. 

Just as quietly, Lydia crosses the distance between the two of them to wrap her arms around him. It feels like it thaws him enough to move. “Who do we need?” she asks. “Stiles, definitely.”

“Scott, maybe.” He breathes in the scent of her hair for a long moment. “Do we need to tell Allison? We should keep the Argents out of it for as long as we can.”

“Telling Scott is telling Allison. She is more than what she’s done. You should know that.” She makes sure to look him in the eye. “She was good to me.”

Jackson feels like this is the calm before the storm, a moment to gather strength for what's ahead. 

“Alright."

They breathe together, taking in the well manicured lawn and the sole tree visible from Jackson's window. Jackson can remember days of hiding in its boughs and the more memorable summer he and Danny decided to build a treehouse there. He thinks he still has the scars from the fall that ended their building schemes. 

Maybe this too will be something they survive together.

__

Jackson goes to Stilinski's house and Lydia goes after Allison. They’re working under the assumption that Scott will be with one of them.

Stiles answers the door with the sleepy eyes of someone caught napping. In the intervening hours, Stiles' cheek has already darkened into a deep bruise, yellow and green pooling beneath his eye. Rolling his eyes, he yawns in Jackson's face. It's enough to split his lip again, fresh blood welling over already formed scabs.

"What now, Jackson?" He asks around another yawn, a quick tongue coming to swipe across his bleeding lip. 

Maybe Jackson's face gives away how serious the situation is. Stiles straightens in response, becoming more awake, that spark in his eyes again. "Jackson?"

"Danny wants to know what is happening."

"And you plan on telling him." Stiles slides his hand through what little hair he has in a familiar gesture. "I thought someone was dying."

It might not compare to the alpha pack, but this still matters to him. 

“I’m asking you for help, dumbass. Lydia’s gone to get Scott, and I got sent after you.”

“Me?”

“For the whole…”

“Kanima thing, yeah.” They just stand there for a moment, awkwardly, before Stiles balances keeping the door open with his foot with grabbing a coat and his keys. 

Jackson must have forgotten how tall he is. From where he’s standing, Jackson can suddenly see the long lines of his body and a flat stomach where his shirt is rucked up. Stiles looks back after locking the door to find Jackson just standing there and asks, "What?"

Without explaining Jackson moves to the car. No need to give Stiles one more reason to be an annoying ass. 

__

 

They reconvene at the Hale house with barely enough time before the hour deadline for the five of them to array themselves around the porch, sagging mess that it is. Stiles keeps pacing and Jackson is just as nervous but Lydia’s holding his hands tightly, keeping him in place. Scott and Allison are in their own corner. There’s something between those two. Jackson would bet that they’re fighting again or fighting the whole breaking up thing, but then again no one around here would take that bet.

Danny’s slow getting out of his car. Maybe it’s the way everyone’s focus is on him. 

“Stiles and Scott. Why am I not surprised.” He walks far enough to take a seat on the hood of his car. Still far away for polite conversation. Jackson supposes it’s smart, that distance, but it still stings. He both does and doesn’t want his best friend to be afraid of him. “So, I came here for answers.”

“You’ll get them,” Stiles says, shrugging. “How much do you know about werewolves?”

“What?” Danny asks flatly. 

“You know, werewolves, wolfmen, howling at the full moon, all that jazz.” 

Danny just stares at Stiles like he’s crazy. And here’s the thing, Stilinski may be the poster child for ADHD, but no matter what tangents he may wander off on, he’s been one of the few people Lydia considered competition. Stiles, brilliant in his own way, with an in to the police department and an ear to the school’s gossip, looks back without any doubts showing on his face. Jackson thinks that if he didn’t know the truth, he would damn well be convinced right around now. 

Danny’s the first to break eye contact, scanning over everyone else’s faces, looking for someone to tell him Stiles has it all wrong. Jackson’s not sure what his face is saying, but Lydia looks determined to see this through, Allison looks worried, and Scott has a pinched look to his face that Jackson can’t quite interpret. 

Stiles looks expectantly at Scott, who shakes his head and backs up. “Scott?” Stiles asks, patiently and almost concerned sounding, one hand reaching out to his best friend. 

Only Scott keeps backing up to the edge of the porch. Arms out and raised like he’s warding them off, he says, “I can’t, Stiles. No.” 

Stiles’ jaw visibly drops for a split second, before his teeth clench and he takes a sharp step toward his best friend. “How do you want him to find out Scott? When the alphas come?” 

Scott’s still shaking his head in a silent no, and Stiles steps closer. Allison white-faced looks torn between interfering and staying out of it. With a hand on Scott’s shoulder she leans up to whisper in his ear.

Only Stiles doesn’t stop. 

Right up in Scott’s face, he asks so quietly that Jackson’s not sure he would hear it if he were human, “Do you want him to find out when his friends are being attacked? Again? Or when he’s already scared, with a gun in his face? Danny wants to- needs to know. Now instead of later. When we can control how he finds out.”

Scott whispers back even more quietly, so Jackson has to strain to hear him, “And when I’m the only one he can name? If Jackson wants to tell him fine. But me? I’m not his secret-Or your secret!- to tell. You’re putting me in danger! And for what, so Jackson can have his friend back?” 

Scott cuts a quick glance toward Jackson and adds harshly, “He’s already tried to kill him once anyway!”

Jackson flinches. And shoots a guilty look at Danny. He doesn’t remember the night at the club. Stiles had told him that he had paralyzed Danny, but surely he had never meant to kill him?

Danny just seems confused and harried. 

On his other side, Lydia seems to be about one hair flip from taking over this whole situation. 

Only there’s a low chuckle from the door to the Hale house. 

Everyone freezes, and turns to stare at the man in the doorway, who Jackson is going to assume is Peter Hale, based on Stiles descriptions. The sheer creepiness seems like a giveaway.

“Maybe I can be of assistance?” Stepping fully onto the porch, hands shoved into his pockets, he almost seems unassuming. With a quick nod, and a smile that Jackson swears is more of a smirk, he says, “Lydia.”

Lydia replies flatly, face a blank mask, “Peter.”

Stiles and Lydia both look so wary. Jackson can feel his muscles tense as he remembers the monster from last year. For all that Stiles had assured him that that can’t happen again, that Peter Hale will never again be the alpha that attacked in the video store, Jackson is still guarded.

A few more steps and he’s smiling genially at Danny. “Here’s what Stiles was trying to show you before Scott became rather, hmm, uncooperative.” A slight hitch of his shoulders, a twist of his head and there’s the characteristic sideburns. His fangs glint at the corners of his smile and he raises his clawed hands to eye level, showing them off, perhaps. 

Danny, eyes wide, backs up a step or two, before standing firm. He twists his head back and forth as though trying to get a better look. Obligingly, Peter Hale yawns, showing off every tooth he has in the process. 

Blandly, Danny looks at Stiles and asks, “Scott?” 

It’s Peter who answers, “Yes.” Shifting back, he has an almost admiring look in his very human eye in regards to Jackson’s best friend. Jackson suddenly has the urge to hide Danny away. . 

Scott growls in response, answering any doubts Danny may have. 

“Jackson?”

“Not exactly,” Stiles hedges. 

Peter looks back at him, before stepping back to flip between Stiles and Danny. “Oh, I want to see this.”

Feeling a bit desperate, Jackson looks at Stiles pleadingly. Hands opened, Stiles shrugs. 

This is on him.

Swallowing dryly, he starts, “I asked for the bite, when I figured out what had happened to Scott. Only things got screwed up. I’m a-” His throat seems to stick and even breathing is impossible, much less shaping the right words. Only Danny’s eyes aren’t accusing or terrified or anything that Jackson was so scared of. He’s just waiting. 

It reminds Jackson of whispered secrets in the middle of the night. They’ve always known each other’s secrets. When Jackson found out he was adopted, when Danny first came out, they told each other first.

This shouldn’t be any harder than that. 

“A kanima,” he nearly breathes out, waiting for all the criticism or the blame.

Danny looks even more confused. “A what?”

Lydia is the one to step forward to answer, coming up behind Jackson’s shoulder. “A mythological spirit of revenge and justice in the shape of a-”

“Giant lizard monster,” Stiles finishes grinning. 

Lydia’s hand creeps to hold onto his, and Jackson squeezes gently. Lydia at his side and Stiles smiling at them almost- almost fondly, and Jackson feels just about ready to face anything. 

“Ri-ight,” Danny mutters sarcastically looking between the three of them. “I might need more than that.” But, he is half-smiling himself. 

“Well, that was less fun than I expected,” Peter says tartly. “Not how I would have opened. I would have started with-’

“Enough,” Stiles interrupts. 

Scott seems to be producing a continuous, low growl that’s riding the boundary between inaudible and audible noise. Moving to meet Peter on the field, Scott says, “Leave. Now.”

Jackson looks at the five of them again. Allison’s hand is shifting to the small of her back, where Jackson would bet there’s a gun. Stiles is standing arms agape in the center of the porch, staring straight back at Peter, unafraid. Lydia has moved behind Jackson and she’s got a stranglehold on her purse of the day. If there’s not something that can mess up a werewolf in there, Jackson will eat his shoes. Jackson guesses he’s as scary or scarier than Scott’s growling werewolf. 

They look dangerous. 

Peter smiles again. It’s almost gentle, but with too many teeth. “Alright, I can see when I’m unwelcome.” 

With one last nod at Lydia, he turns and leaves, whistling nonchalantly beneath his breath. 

No one moves until he’s walked out of sight. 

Finally moving from the spot where he had frozen, Danny turns to the rest of them. “I think I need a better explanation.”

Stiles sighs and says, “Yeah, we should probably start from the beginning.” 

“And maybe use small words,” Danny adds. 

___

So, they start with Stiles telling the story of how they ended up in the woods and Scott takes over to tell how he was bitten and what it felt like to suddenly be a werewolf. 

(“It felt like the world got turned up to eleven. And sometimes I couldn’t deal and other times I had all these feelings and I guess instincts maybe that screwed me up.”

“So, puberty.”)

And meeting Derek Hale (“Ah, I knew ‘Miguel’ would show up eventually.”) which led to a whole ‘nother round of explanations from Danny. Mostly to Stiles’ embarrassment and general disbelief. Jackson’s surprised that Stiles actually managed that. Stiles mostly looked like he's blushing all over. Red spreading down his neck to where his shirt collar cut off the view. 

Then trying to figure out who the hell the alpha, the first one at least, was. Which, Jackson supposed, clarified what had happened earlier. 

There was the whole school at night, and how Jackson figured out the truth about werewolves, and the truth of what the Argents really did. What Allison’s aunt had done. And what Peter had done as well.

Finally, there was the night of the prom. Jackson and Stiles and Lydia all had things they regretted. Jackson just told the hunters where to find Scott. Lydia’s nightmares started that night. Stiles caved to blackmail. The explanations were suddenly said quickly and blankly and without meeting anyone else’s eyes. 

After Peter Hale’s ignominious end, it got easier, almost. Scott was a werewolf and Derek was alpha and other werewolves were being bitten. Scott was still firm on not outing anyone else and Danny respected that, but guessed Isaac, Erica and Boyd’s identities in less than a minute.

(“C’mon. It’s not that hard to see who suddenly transformed from social outcasts to well-” Jackson interprets Danny’s gesture as a comment on the attractiveness of the various pack members. Or possibly a comment on the uncertain social status of the wolves after their meteoric rise.)

Then it gets to the part where the murder spree started. And the story that had been passed from voice to voice, almost seamlessly, barring the occasional interruption, stops dead. Lydia knocks her shoulder into Jackson’s side and raises an eyebrow when she catches his attention. He’s still trying to figure out how to explain this part when Danny speaks. 

“So, the rash of animal deaths, what happened at the sheriff's office, those were caused by werewolves?”

“Not exactly,” Stiles answers. “The kanima is supposed to kill murderers, people who have killed before, but it seeks someone to control it and it can be...corrupted might be the best word.”

“So Jackson,” Danny looks incredulous. Apparently believing in werewolves doesn't make it any easier to believe your best friend is a serial killer. “You’re saying Jackson killed all those people.”

“I don’t- I don’t remember?” Jackson says slowly and it's an excuse and a plea for understanding all wrapped into one. "I just lost time or slept through the night and in the meantime it- me was-" He trails off, hand outstretched as though offering the words he couldn't say. "Then it just took over. Whatever makes me me just disappeared."

Danny looks like he can't believe it. It's almost sweet, maybe, that this- not the werewolves or the werewolf hunters- but this is his sticking point. It's like the serial killer's mom who keeps swearing that her Jimmy would never hurt a fly. Sweet, but unproductive. 

"I may not have wanted to, I may have been out of control, but I did this. This is all my mess," Jackson finishes quietly. 

It's Allison who rescues him, speaking softly about Matt's stalking and how they figured out he was to blame. They get up to the point where Matt held up the station and Jackson sits there eyes closed as Stiles recites names like a roll call for the honorable dead. And one dishonorable one. 

"So Matt died. Who killed him and who took control?"

It's Scott who names Gerard and then explains his mad plan and Scott's own counter. Jackson catches a glimpse of everyone else's faces. Stiles looks like he bit a lemon and is trying to hide it. Jackson guesses he had never heard of Scott's plan until the night of the battle. Lydia looks caught between being impressed with Scott's plan and being angry at how little she was informed. It's all there, hidden in a quirk of her eyebrow and the set of her lips. 

And finally it's done, with a fairy tale ending. Scott's the hero, Allison is the love interest, Gerard is the villain and the rest of them are inconsequential. Maybe that's the problem: too many sidekicks and not enough comrades. Maybe they all should have asked for help instead of playing lone wolf. 

Maybe that's what Derek meant about pack and Jackson wonders where he is. Wonders what sort of story of the battle Derek would have told when his protégé turned rival held him down with claws on a bared neck. Maybe Derek knows what it feels like to watch your body act as someone else's puppet. To hate what you’ve been made to do.

But it’s finally at an end, and Jackson idly tracks an errant firefly in the encroaching twilight. Today was so damned long and he’s ready for it to be over. The group breaks up slowly. The secrets they’ve been telling forced a closeness that they’re not quite used to yet. Allison and Scott head out in Allison’s car and Stiles sticks around rather than play third wheel. He and Lydia strike up some kind of conversation about how to figure out what to do about the alpha pack. Jackson watches for a while, until he registers Danny watching him.

“And now?” Danny asks quietly. “Who is it?” 

Jackson tilts his head toward Stiles, but maybe the gesture is insufficiently descriptive because Danny says, “Yeah, I can see you trusting her.” 

Confused, he turns back to the two of them, heads bent together over pages lit by Stiles’ cell phone. Jackson idly thinks maybe he should be jealous of them, but at the same time, he is overwhelmingly glad of the trust between them. It makes this almost bearable.

“No, Stiles. I don’t think Lydia trusts herself after Peter.”

Danny looked at him for a long moment. 

“Why him?” he finally asked.

“I don’t know if Lydia could tell you why exactly she chose him and I was unconscious for any negotiations,” Jackson explains offhandedly. He’s not sure he’ll ever know why she chose Stiles and he knows Stiles had little desire to be responsible for him.

“So, Stiles.”

“Yep.”

They both watch as Stiles’ arms flail wildly to punctuate whatever point he’s making. Lydia catches them staring and shrugs as if to say “What can you do?”

“Right,” Danny says. Together, they wade into the debate, which somehow evolves into a mostly hypothetical discussion of how to adapt Lacrosse strategy to what is shaping up to be an all out war. The discussion only ends when the sun truly sets, and they can barely see one another.

Somehow Danny ends up agreeing to take Stiles home, while Jackson and Lydia ride together again. As his car starts pulling away, Jackson catches Danny, apparently unaware of how far his hearing range extends now, telling Stiles, “Jackson is my best friend and if you hurt him-”

Recognizing the start to a speech nearly identical to the one he’d given to every one of Danny’s boyfriends, he can’t help but laugh even as Lydia frostily demands what the hell could be so funny. Lydia doesn’t laugh when he explains the joke she just raises an eyebrow and heads for the car. 

___

“Stiles knows better,” she says later, when they’re both tucked into his bed.

“I’m sure you have him quaking in his boots. You’ve already punched him once,” Jackson jokes sleepily.

“I should have given him the benefit of the doubt today.”

“Mmm,” Jackson murmurs already mostly asleep. “It’s over and done with. Give him the benefit of the doubt tomorrow. We all might need it.”

It’s quiet then and Jackson settles deeper into the bed, each breath bringing him closer to sleep and peace. Finally.

Only Lydia is tense in his arms, and he can see the faint glint of her eyes as she stares off somewhere into the darkness of his bedroom.

“Something is coming, Jackson,” she whispers and Jackson shivers. There’s something about the way that she is staring so blankly, as though she can divine the future from the darkness.

“Not just the alpha pack,” she continues. “Something worse.”

Jackson thinks for a long time about what exactly their definition for worse is now. Because they’ve faced monsters and guns and blood and death and here they are. 

Still standing.

“So we take the time the alpha pack’s given us, and we get ready,” he says finally. “And we meet whatever comes.”

He falls asleep imagining he and Lydia and Stiles and Danny and Scott and Allison and Isaac and maybe even Derek standing as they did against Peter.

Together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once more, all my love to fightingtheblankpage.


	6. Chapter 6

Life falls into a pattern. 

There's school, but there's always been school and some days it feels like there will always be school, and it's normal. The group from that first night, the group that stood together against Peter Hale, the one that’s been bound together by the stories they’ve told, sticks together, in classes and at lunch. It makes things almost tolerable, especially since Stiles seems to still be on lizard watch, even if he has loosened his guard. Isaac gets sucked in the next day at school when Scott pulls him over to interrogate him about the Alpha pack. They don't learn much, but Isaac finds his place between Danny and Scott. 

Scott and Allison still seem to be pretending to not be together and Jackson's not sure who they're trying to fool. Maybe just themselves. Still, although Allison eschews their table, she shows up at the Hale house on a daily basis. 

So, there’s school and then lacrosse. Stiles and Jackson spend lacrosse practice on the bench together, doing homework or cheering on Scott and Isaac or occasionally trying to meditate, but mostly whiling away time until supernatural practice. They bump knees and shoulders, sharing answers for the classes they both have or yelling at the field. Jackson buries deeply how long the warmth of those touches last. He thinks that Lydia suspects. Sometimes, when she and Allison cheer from the sideline, Jackson catches her with that calculating look on her face. It will either result in a way that will benefit them both or send Jackson reeling, but he knows better than to ask before Lydia is willing to tell him.

Then it’s practice at the Hale house. Well, more or less. Isaac and Scott swear they're training, but it looks mostly like tag to Jackson, sometimes evolving into playing catch with Allison's arrows or hide and seek in the woods. Lydia practices with Allison's bow sometimes, and pores over the bestiary at others. That first day of practice, she and Stiles were both plotting how to get into Peter's version, pulling in Danny for his commentary on laptop security. Jackson, who had gotten his lecture on how to form a secure password before, wondered if they knew what they had gotten themselves into. When he checked in later, they were drawing designs for wolfsbane delivery systems. 

Danny seems to be everywhere: talking to Lydia and Stiles, learning archery from Allison and tracking from the wolves. Jackson doesn't say anything, but he can't help but think he's got his best friend back. A best friend who's looking at Isaac in a way Jackson is very familiar with. He wonders if Danny has realized yet that Isaac is looking back, but he's pretty okay with letting them figure it out for themselves. 

It's not just Danny and Isaac. Jackson watches the six of them and he can see how they're coming together. He remembers what Derek said about pack, about how it’s "tighter than family." They're not there yet, but given time, they could be, and it's already more than he ever had at home. On the other hand, both Hales have been suspiciously absent. Isaac can only say that Derek is still alive, still his alpha. Jackson can't help but wonder how long that will last. Even in these idyllic days, the threat of the Alpha pack is a cloud overhead. 

As for himself, Jackson spends most of his time meditating. In the beginning, he was rewarded with only brief half-kanima moments a third of the time. And even that was fleeting. But, it keeps getting better, more consistent, like he can finally catch the slippery moment when he switches from fully human to other. It's starting to get easier to see the world through revved up senses. Stiles never intervenes, just watches. Jackson gets used to feeling the weight of Stiles’ eyes on him. 

The others watch too, occasionally. Lydia’s always a welcome presence by his side when he’s exhausted from the mental and physical hoops his body goes through to change so drastically. He keeps meaning to ask Scott and Isaac what their transformations are like, but they use their claws instinctually, almost nonchalantly when it’s just them in the woods. Sometimes the two of them seem so confused as to why he fights the change so hard. And at other times it seems like they are the only ones who could ever understand what it means to lose one’s humanity. 

They also see the kanima differently than most of the humans in the group. Jackson thinks Stiles and Lydia might have an idea of the destruction the kanima can wreak, but it’s Isaac and Scott and Allison who fought it when it was mindlessly controlled. Danny, he thinks, has no idea, no matter how true the story he was told. When he’s half turned, there’s a feeling of kinship with the wolves and of enmity in equal parts. They are both something more than human and yet so very different. They feel like a threat still. 

Jackson thinks it’s natural, the rivalry between them. Isaac wants to see who’s better, now that the fighting isn’t serious. Allison doesn’t weigh in, but the way she touches her knives and her bow, like she wants to redeem her performance, makes him think she wouldn’t be opposed to a rematch. Scott hasn’t said much either way, but his belief in his superiority rubs Jackson in all the wrong ways.

On Thursday, they finally convince him to spar against the wolves. Jackson faces the wolfed out versions of Scott and Isaac on the field in front of the house. Allison’s watching nervously from the sidelines by the cars, and Lydia, Danny, and Stiles are by the porch. Stiles has been banned from intervening unless absolutely necessary. Jackson had caught the wordless look Scott had thrown Stiles in response to Stiles’ worry. He’s pretty sure it was Scott’s version of “I can totally take him.” 

“Ready?” Scott calls across the space between them. 

Jackson reaches down for that switch, that feeling of something that is very not him. Scott and Isaac and Stiles all said the trigger for wolves is anger or lust or something to get the heart beating fast. For Jackson, it’s like a compressed ball of all of his need to please, all the dark underpinnings to what he shows the world. It feels like thrusting his hand into something dark and cold and slippery. Still, it’s with satisfaction that he watches scales rise on his bared arms. He and the wolves had all stripped down to shorts for this bout. Jackson has plans to keep his clothing undestroyed, thank you very much. 

One last check: claws, scales, fangs all good to go, and he nods. “Ready,” he says, words distorted a bit by his elongated teeth.

It starts easy. Scott advances slowly, and the first blows are all hesitant, both of them feeling each other out. It’s almost pleasant, taking advantage of new abilities and new reflexes. It even feels fake, when it’s so easy to predict what will happen next. The punches that Scott does manage to land barely sting. 

Scott frowns, like he expected it to be going better, and Jackson wonders just who Scott has been fighting. Because, yeah, Scott is faster and stronger than he once was, coordinated and balanced in a way he’s never been, but he still telegraphs his moves, still goes for the obvious opening. Jackson doesn’t think he’s ever tried fighting in a coordinated way. It’s a strange time to be thankful for the boxing lessons his adopted dad had once forced him to take. Jackson thinks is was meant to be bonding or some kind of introduction to manhood. Neither the fake father-son relationship or his adopted father’s idea of what made a man stuck very well. But it makes it easy to see how Scott leaves his body open. How Scott keeps his eyes on Jackson’s hands and not his torso. 

It makes it easier to fake a move one way and land a solid body shot from the other. Scott drops his hands, shifts his body weight forward to compensate, but it means he’s given up a solid stance. So Jackson just has to move back, to pull him a bit more off balance and then it’s easy to bear him to the ground. Beneath him, Scott is human again and Jackson’s not sure if it’s the surprise or something else. Jackson waits for a count of three and then backs up. It’s all eerily silent.

Scott gets to his feet easily enough. Isaac almost looks like he means to come check and Allison’s hands are tight on her crossbow. But, Scott seems fine and he’s the one who practically growls, “Again.” 

This time it feels like Scott is more aggressive. Jackson thinks it’s foolish. Anger might make you faster, might increase adrenaline, but it leads to mistakes. Scott’s barely holding him off, not by skill or strength, but by his wolf instincts alone and it’s not enough. His instincts might be able to warn him that a blow is coming, but Scott lacks a fighter’s innate sense of strategy, a mental map of weaknesses and strengths. Instead, Scott’s defense seems more like flailing without direction or clear intent. In contrast, Jackson feels clear headed and calm. Almost coldblooded. It makes it even easier to block Scott. With a smirk, Jackson starts playing with him. Light taps at his side or his back or his neck, each one capable of ending the fight with just a bit more strength behind them, but Jackson won’t stop it so soon, not when it’s this fun. 

It becomes a pattern. Jackson plays with Scott, who becomes frustrated and swings wildly, leaving him more open for Jackson’s sly jabs.Then it starts again, Scott’s frustration feeding into Jackson’s glee. Scott becomes more desperate. It should make Scott weak, but it also makes him unpredictable. Unpredictable enough that he catches Jackson’s cheek with his claws. 

Three burning lines across his face, and Jackson stumbles. The hand he reaches out to keep his balance doesn’t look human at all, the blue fire of magic racing up his arm. He means to call this whole thing off, because this is the tipping point, he can feel it. But the words never make it out of his mouth. He’s become a voiceless thing, hurtling forward with no way to stop what’s about to happen.

He takes Scott down in less than a second, a long slice curling around from the back of his neck to cross his ribs and finally cut deeply into his belly. Scott doesn’t even flinch until it’s too late, like he stood there to take the blow, like he never saw it coming. He pirouettes going down, like a spinning top that’s run out of speed, a slow fall that lands him face down. Allison’s fast to respond, but too slow to make a difference. Jackson sees an arrow sprout from his own chest, but it doesn’t slow him down an inch, not even when Isaac comes for him. It’s a one, two, three combination that ends with Jackson’s clawed hand buried in Isaac’s abdomen. Liver, diaphragm, intestine, lung, Jackson has literally eviscerated the kid and he doesn’t pause. Turning, tail lashing, he looks for the next threat. 

“Stop!” Stiles voice cracks like a whip.

It’s enough to break through instincts, to let Jackson stop. Legs quivering, barely holding him up, he catches himself with a hand on the ground. Then the pain from the arrow hits him. One deep breath and he pulls it out with a groan. The hole in his chest instantly heals. Beside him, Isaac is still making these choked off gasping noises, like he can’t get enough air, like he can’t breathe. Scott’s not much better off. From the way he’s bonelessly lying there, Jackson thinks Scott got hit by his toxin. 

For a moment, Jackson just crouches there. And then he runs, a sea of fearful faces flashing by. 

He leaps the porch steps, barreling through the door and feet hardly touching the staircase. It’s a barely remembered path, but when he finally stops, he’s found his way into the bedroom from that first night. The same linens still cover the mattress and in the daylight, the bedframe looks hastily put together. When he climbs onto the bed, back to the corner of the room and knees to his chest, he can smell that sour must of sheets that desperately need changing. Still, it’s a place to hide. 

He didn’t- he didn’t know. Not really. Stiles told stories, and he’s seen the blood. He’d known what he had done. He knows the names and the families and most of the graves. But he thought he was dangerous like the werewolves were dangerous. That one might balance out the other. Now, he thinks he was wrong.

That was not a fair fight. Not when it came right down to the wire. Scott was outclassed. And that means Isaac didn’t have a chance. Scott is both more experienced than Isaac and took more naturally to being a werewolf for all his reluctance. Yet when Jackson let the kanima take over, it was like they were all moving in slow motion. It became a graceful sort of dance. That translated to a bloody slaughter. 

He’s not sure they could have stopped him. If Lydia hadn’t been there the first time, if Stiles weren’t here now...

He shudders. 

Suddenly, he sees a reason for why the kanima evolved this way. It doesn’t make this right, doesn’t make it any better. But, there’s a cold understanding now. He needs a check, a counterbalance, and here it is, an absolute. It’s a bargain he never meant to make, never thought possible, would never think to choose, but that doesn’t matter much now. He is dangerous and so he is bound to another’s will, a yoke across his shoulders.

For a moment, it’s quiet. Jackson wonders vaguely if he’s too old to hide from his troubles beneath the covers. Downstairs, he can hear quiet conversation, but he doesn’t try to understand what’s being said. He idly smears the blood on his arm into patterns. He could just stay here for a while. Avoid looking his friends in the face. 

A knock on the door interrupts his thoughts. Without waiting for a response, Stiles steps just within the doorframe. “I am sorry for what I did,” Stiles says hesitantly.

“You’re sorry?” Jackson’s voice cracks partway through. “I just-”

“We shouldn’t have pushed you before you were more in control. We knew what the kanima is capable of.”

Jackson thinks it was meant to be comforting, but it offers only irritation. “I didn’t!”

Stiles looks at him curiously and says quietly, “No, you didn’t.” 

They just remain in silence for a second. Stiles’ eyes must catch on the blood all up Jackson’s forearms because he urges Jackson to his feet. “Dude, I don’t know what kind of setup Derek has, but I bet there’s a working shower somewhere around here,” he adds, towing Jackson down the hallway. With a scowl, Jackson twists his way out of the grip around his wrist. With a shrug, Stiles continues his search. When Stiles turns his back, Jackson rubs away the imaginary imprints of his fingers. 

Eventually, they find a shower at the end of the hall. It looks recently renovated, with new tile and still gleaming accents. Jackson supposes the exterior and the downstairs rooms of the house don’t say much about it’s livability. Stiles nervously rubs the back of his neck before promising to find a towel. He trips his way out of the door and Jackson turns back to the shower. 

It’s hotter than he expected and he basks in the warmth and peace. The blood sticks to his skin before coming off to form pink swirls on the porcelain beneath his feet. He scrubs his arms red trying to get every last bit from between his nails and behind his elbows and in the folds of his knuckles. But there’s no absolution to be had here. 

When he finally steps out, there’s a towel that’s seen better days waiting on the counter. It smells clean though, which is a blessing. His shorts, or whatever was left of them, are gone. Wrapping his towel around his waist, he figures most of them share a locker room, Lydia’s seen him in less, and it’s not exactly like Allison has eyes for anyone besides Scott. 

He heads for the bedroom that has somehow become nominally his, hoping to find some kind of clothes. Maybe he could steal something of Derek’s. Or, you know, the hiding under the covers plan sounds pretty good, too. 

Only Stiles is headed there too, a bundle of clothing in his arms. They somehow reach the doors at the same time, Stiles awkwardly shifting out of the way to let Jackson past, a certain twitchiness about him that Jackson recognizes from Stiles’ interactions with Lydia. Jackson smirks, it’s not like he minds showing off just a bit. It’s fun to watch the way Stiles loses his equilibrium. Just a bit. It feels like power. It’s nice to just bask in the attention. Jackson is distracted enough that he barely manages to hang onto the clothes Stiles thrusts at his chest. Stiles averts his eyes as Jackson’s towel slips just a bit more and then they’re both blushing as Jackson fumbles his way into the room, placing the clothes on the bed. Jackson fastidiously fixes his towel before reaching for the clean shirt. 

As he’s pulling on the shirt that smells suspiciously of Stiles, Jackson asks, “Has it- Is it always like this?”

“Always like what?” Stiles says absentmindedly. Jackson finishes pulling the shirt into place and waits patiently for Stiles’ eyes to meet his again. 

“This bloody and violent. It’s not like that with Scott and Isaac.” Jackson goes to put on the shorts, and Stiles spins to face away from Jackson abruptly. It’s just so damned easy.

“The first time, when it was with Derek? The toxin was all over your claws, and Derek couldn’t keep you from hitting him for long, so...”

“So, what?” Jackson asks harshly, spinning Stiles back to face him.

“So, he cut your- the kanima’s throat ear to ear.”

“What? I don’t-I didn’t-” Jackson just breathes, hand on his comfortingly solid throat. “You never told me this Stiles!” 

Jackson starts pacing. This was a deal he’d just been beginning to understand. To trust in even. And he- he was depending on Stiles. God shit fucking damn it all to hell. 

“You sent me back out there, knowing what it took to stop me? Even in training, even in play. How stupid could you have been Stiles?” Jackson is practically shouting by the end.

“Oh, I know exactly what it takes to stop you. A word. One word,” Stiles says coldly right in Jackson’s face. But then his face gets that familiar resigned look. “Look, the first time, when Derek backed far enough away while you were healing to not be considered a threat, you left him alone. You just sort of prowled around for a while and then curled up around me. So I brought you inside to clean you up and then I ended up with your head in my lap.” 

Stiles leans in just the tiniest bit, just enough for his forehead to rest against Jackson’s own. Uncertain, Jackson’s hands come up to Stiles’ hips to steady him. Warm breath between them, and Jackson is struck silent and still.

Eyes closed, Stiles whispers, “Even out of your mind and without any scrap remaining of what makes you human, you only attacked defensively, and protected me, and then turned back on your own. Of course I sent you home.” His eyes flick open to search for belief or maybe understanding in Jackson’s eyes. “I want to give you every choice I can. Every choice.” 

Jackson swears they are this close to something he might not have been wanting, but desperately wants now, only he hears a polite “Ahem” from the doorway. In a second, Stiles is three feet away and flailing. Frankly, Jackson’s surprised he stayed on his feet. 

Jackson has a much easier time of looking coolly to where Lydia is standing in the doorway. The way she’s standing is completely dismissive of Stiles.

Maybe it’s the frostiness of her gaze or his embarrassment, but with a strangled “Lydia” Stiles hightails it out of there. 

Then it’s just the two of them. Lydia sits primly on the bed. She takes her time placing the shoes that must have been her original purpose for coming upstairs meticulously at her feet, folding her hands in her lap, and crossing her legs neatly. Jackson's swears that every inch of her screams rigid control and he doesn't understand. 

For the last week, she's been melting into his side, folding into his arms, like she couldn't get close enough. Now she's an ocean away. It’s not anger that he would be intimate with someone else; it’s a frozen sort of sadness. Like she knew this was coming for a long time, like she was waiting for everything to fall apart. 

" I wasn't expecting it to be Stiles," she says finally. Jackson's pretty sure that explains just about nothing. "What's that saying? 'Fool me once shame on you, fool me twice shame on me’ and it doesn't mention a third time because no one is that kind of fool."

"Lydia-"

"Everyone has limits and this is mine. We had a good run and-" Lydia breaks off crying and Jackson can feel tears on his own face.

"Lydia, what are you talking about?" 

"Do I have to say it? If we're breaking up again, I'm done."

"Over that!" Jackson gestures to where he and Stiles had been standing. He winces at how incriminating it must have looked to her. "I didn't kiss Stilinski! And you can't tell me you didn't kiss McCall when we were together!"

"Yeah, well who decided I was dead weight when he was all set on becoming a wolf? Oh right, you!" Lydia looks furious. 

"God, I fucked that up. I wanted to spend the whole dance with you. And when I saw you on that field, when I thought I lost you-" Jackson can only shake his head. 

He's pretty sure there aren't words to describe the pain he felt when he thought she was lying dead and bloodied on the field. Or the relief and adrenaline when he realized she was still breathing. He owes Stiles that. A debt that he doesn't think he can repay. Jackson holds Lydia more closely to him. No matter of how dry an account Stiles had offered everyone else, Jackson can't even guess what Stiles must have given Peter in order to tell Jackson where Lydia is. Jackson will never forget the dead tone to Stiles' voice or the crunch of a destroyed phone that ended the call.

"I never wanted to ever lose you again," Jackson murmurs against the skin of Lydia's neck. 

Lydia laughs and it's not a pleasant sound. She pushes him away and wipes futilely at her eyes. "Then why the hell did you break up with me again?" 

"What?"

"You broke up with me! During the 'study group' at my house!" 

Jackson just shakes his head in confusion. 

"You don't remember?" Lydia asks carefully. 

“You were my anchor and you weren’t always there because of Peter, but you came in the end,” Jackson was so sure she had been bringing him back to himself. What if all his memories were wrong? “You were there with a key, weren’t you? Weren’t you?”

“Yes, yes. Stiles drove me to the warehouse.” She smiles at him and pulls him close again. Even unable to see her face, Jackson knows the lopsided smile she must be wearing when she says, “And I showed you the key and told you I still love you.”

“I do, I do still love you,” Jackson whispered into her hair. “Please don’t ever believe anything different.”

For a minute, it is something perfect. A comfort he can believe is true. It means something more without the confusion between them. 

With a gentle push to his chest, Lydia separates them. “That was still something.”

“Lydia, I would never-”

“But you want to.” Jackson wouldn’t lie, not to her and his silence is answer enough. Lydia smiles wryly and a bit more wetly than Jackson might have hoped. “And I’m used to seeing Stiles only look at me like that.”

"So where do we go from here?" he asks. 

Neither one of them has any answers.

____

Friday is awkward. 

Stiles is...removed. A little more quiet, a little bit further away, a little muted. A little less himself. 

Jackson might have never noticed all of a week ago, but suddenly it's like his whole life is shadowed under the black cloud Stiles is putting out. It's that bit easier to be irritated, to get more easily frustrated. 

School takes forever and a day. Lacrosse practice is a lesson in how quickly a team can fall apart. Finnstock, frustrated at the way nothing clicked, abso-fucking-lutely nothing, sets them to running suicides. And maybe there's supposed to be some point where the team comes together in their shared pain or some shit. But no, Jackson's pretty sure all he's feeling is anger and irritation and possibly a tinge of murderous intent. And it's not Scott or Isaac or Danny who notices. Of course, it's Stiles who pulls Jackson aside. 

"Dude, you need to not have a hulk out here," Stiles says quietly during a break in sprints. It's weird to see Stiles in the first group to finish, or maybe not, not after his performance in the last game. "Maybe you should try to take a couple deep breaths. If it would please you to just calm down."

"It's under control," Jackson says gruffly, desperately wanting Stiles' hands off his jersey and out of his space. He shoves past Stiles to take his place on the line again. 

On Jackson’s other side, Danny looks like he wants to ask what's wrong, but thankfully Coach blows the whistle. Jackson throws his anger into pushing harder, running faster, but never as fast as he wants, never as fast as he can. They’re playing a game of hiding in plain sight, he and the wolves. 

When it’s time to head to the Hale house, it’s Allison who nudges Scott. Scott looks back with a "What?" expression on his face. At another look from her, Scott's eyes widen in understanding and he says to the rest of them, “There’s a- my Mom was hoping to meet you all?” It's part statement and part question, and Jackson has no idea why Scott's saying it now. And apparently he's not the only one who's confused.

It's Allison who steps up to explain, with that nervous air that has her grinning randomly. That underneath her lashes smile that Jackson’s sure has charmed her way through each new school. 

"Mrs. McCall found out about Beacon Hill's werewolf population at the police station, when none of us were at our best," she says. From the damage done to the station by bullets, not supernatural strength, Jackson guessing she's thinking of her own sins. 

"So, in other words," Isaac drawls. "You have to meet the parent, and you want us as distractions."

"What? No, that's not-" Allison stammers. 

"Because she already met and loves me," Isaac continues. "And I'd be happy to put a good word in."

"No," Scott says, shooting Isaac a dirty look. "My Mom phrased it as wanting to meet the people I'd been spending all my time with before they got all bloody and needed to be stitched up."

"Oh, right, we now have a health professional in the know," Stiles comments.

"By the way, you're in trouble with my Mom," Scott tells Stiles. Stiles winces. "I don't know how she feels about not telling your dad. Also, she said that she knows where you live."

"So, it's movie night at Scott's house, then?" Allison says, clapping her hands. 

With varying degrees of reluctance, they all nod. 

"Well," Jackson murmurs to Danny and Lydia. "This should be about as fun as being stabbed. Again."

Sliding into his passenger seat, Lydia adds,"I'll bring The Notebook."

___

It's less awkward than Jackson expected but that doesn't mean much. 

Isaac just waltzes past Scott's mom at the door with a quick "Mrs. McCall" and those damned puppy dog eyes. 

Allison stands there shifting her weight nervously until Mrs. McCall hugs her easily and pulls her inside to where Scott's waiting. Behind Allison's back Jackson catches Scott's mom mouthing "This one?" to her son and Scott's confirming nod.

Lydia kisses both of Mrs. McCall's cheeks and then breezes past, saying she already called for pizza and it should be here soon. Her parents' treat, of course. 

Mrs. McCall watches her go with a bemused expression on her face, before turning back to where Jackson's standing just inside the door. Normally he'd just sneak past after Lydia, but it doesn't work this time. With a shaky gasp, she places a hand on his cheek, before throwing her arms around him. Nervously placing his hands on her back, Jackson tries to find some kind of explanation for why he has an armful of Mrs. McCall. 

Scott looks straight into his eyes from where Allison is leaning into his side. "She thought you were dead," he says with a shrug. "It's a nurse thing." With a laugh, Mrs. McCall pushes off of Jackson and goes to greet Danny warmly because he's Danny and Jackson's pretty sure no one can resist him. 

And then it's just Stiles shuffling his feet, mouth already opening to make excuses, or try to give some kind of explanation of the unexplainable, but Mrs. McCall just sweeps him into a hug. "I'm so sorry," he whispers into her ear, but she shakes her head and wipes her tears. 

"I'm just glad you're safe," she says. "You're both safe." One last squeeze and she lets him go. Stiles ducks his head before coming inside, so they can finally shut the door. 

"Well," Mrs. McCall says looking at the teenagers sprawled throughout the living room. "Scott, why don't you help me get some popcorn." 

Scott looks up uncomprehendingly. "You just microwave the bag?"

"Scott. Kitchen. Now." 

Over the argument over what movie to watch that Lydia seems to be winning handily, Jackson can hear Scott's mom ask, "So which ones are-" 

When Scott doesn't answer and all Jackson can hear is the popping of kernels, she clarifies, "You know- werewolves?"

"It's just me, Mrs. M." Isaac calls out loud enough for even the humans to hear. "Everyone else is human except for Jackson."

"I know about Jackson," she says dryly from the doorway. The rest of the conversations fall silent at the mention of the elephant in the room. 

From her side, Scott explains, "Danny's human, Lydia's immune, and Allison's family hunts werewolves."

"Only the ones who hurt other people," Allison is quick to say. 

"Or the ones who get in your way," Isaac mutters. The closest one to him, in this case Danny, smacks the back of his head. "Those knives hurt. Damn it!"

Allison is pink-cheeked, but before either she or Scott can try to rescue the situation, there’s a thud from upstairs. Jackson and Isaac’s heads both turn at the sound. Scott and the rest of the humans seem to be oblivious to the noise, but they notice the sudden movement. 

When the sound doesn’t stop, Jackson and Isaac take the stairs two at a time, Scott on their heels, and Allison produces a lethal looking pair of knives. In Scott's bedroom, there's blood on the windowsill and more on the floor in a trail leading to his bathroom. It’s unnerving, seeing this much blood, especially when it denotes violence, threats, and danger. When it feels like they’re standing on a knife’s edge betweens the hunters and the alphas, and every situation has the opportunity to become life threatening. Jackson finds himself creeping forward, slowly, carefully, mindful of a possible ambush.

When they open the door, there’s only a man with his back to them, silhouetted in the light. 

Derek Hale: bloodied, bruised, and suddenly reappeared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo! We have survived the holidays! Once more, thanks to fightingtheblankpage for the beta when school was heading back into gear for the both of us.


	7. Chapter 7

Jackson's frozen.

It's Isaac's whisper that breaks the silence. "Derek?" he asks, "What happened to you?" Faltering, Isaac gently touches a shoulder, the only unbloodied part of Derek's skin. Eyes rolling wildly, Derek snaps his jaws at the offending hand, backing away from the two of them. 

It's just like when Jackson first woke up, all instincts and terror. He's not sure why Derek is here, but some of the blood on Derek is black and he's pretty sure that's not good. Strangely, it's Scott who takes charge. 

"Go get my mom," Scott tells Isaac. With one last look, Isaac turns to go downstairs. Scott waits until Isaac is out of hearing range before saying quietly, "I don't think we can let the others near him, right now."

"Then why did you-" Jackson motions toward where Isaac disappeared. 

Scott grimaces. "It's something about having the alpha hurt. It makes it hard to think." He pauses. "He's not even my alpha and I want- I need to tear whoever did this apart."

They turn back to Derek, who is now crouched low, a continuous rumble coming from his chest, for all that his features remain human.

"I need to talk to Allison," Scott says finally, nodding at the oozing wounds. "That looks like wolfsbane poisoning." 

“Hunters?” Jackson asks quietly. 

“I don’t-” Scott starts hesitantly.

“No,” Allison says determinedly from the door. “Those wounds weren’t made by a knife or a bow. Those-those are claw marks.”

"Werewolves with wolfsbane?" Jackson asks sarcastically. It makes about as much sense as Superman stockpiling kryptonite. 

"He buried his sister with wolfsbane," Scott murmurs quietly. 

"It's not particularly common for hunters to use," Allison adds hesitantly. "It crosses a line in the code. Then again, most of my family ignored the code as it pleased them." She hugs her arms around herself tightly. 

“I can- I can get the antidote,” Allison finishes determinedly. “But, I don’t think it’s necessary. This isn’t like a bullet where it’s too deep inside to heal and too quickly poisoning to cure.”

"That's good, right?" Jackson asks. 

Allison nods tightly.

With one last whimper, Derek collapses. They all start forward, at least until he snorts and starts breathing in a calm, constant pattern. 

Gently, Scott turns him on his side. “He’s sleeping,” Scott says finally. “Just sleeping.” 

At Scott’s motion, Jackson helps to heave Derek onto Scott’s bed. He looks incongruous and uncomfortable, something wild and made for the uncivilized places sprawled across the bedspread. But, Derek quietly snores on in what seems like a healing sleep, however uneasy.

“So they weren’t trying to kill him?” Scott asks hopefully from the door. 

“No,” Allison whispers back, brushing Derek’s hair gently from his forehead. “They were killing him as slowly and as painfully as possible.”

__

The unknown threat that could take down an alpha werewolf filled the night with shadows and dangers. 

Tonight, at least, no one wants to be alone. 

When Scott’s Mom returns from doing what she could for Derek, which, according to Scott, isn’t much more than making him comfortable and waiting for his healing to kick in, they’re half-heartedly watching The Notebook, and eating pizza with little appetite. 

They’re all squished together.

Somehow, it feels as though it’s too far away, to sit without skin contact, without the warmth of another person. Scott and Allison have commandeered one side of the tired couch, Danny and Isaac on the other. Jackson wonders if the two not-quite couples have realized yet that they are reflecting each other.

Jackson had taken the armchair as his own, Lydia perching on the arm and leaning into his shoulder. Stiles is stranded between their small group and the couch.

“He’ll live,” Mrs. McCall says, unnecessarily when half the room can pick out Derek’s heartbeat if they try. “Now, anyone mind telling me why Derek Hale is passed out in my house?”

The group trades glances. How do they explain what Derek is to them? An alpha without a pack, a leader without followers, a sometimes ally.

“His family was his pack,” Jackson finally says. “We’re dealing with the fallout of his family’s tragedy still.”

“And without the Hales?” Mrs. McCall asks quietly.

“There’s territory to be claimed,” Stiles answers. “And the Alpha Pack is coming.” 

__

Jackson wakes up without quite knowing what had awoken him. As he extracts himself from Lydia’s arms, he yawns and looks around the room.

Scott is sprawled out on his stomach, one ankle pressed to Allison’s calf. Allison is curled up in a tight little ball, one hand hiding under her pillow. Jackson can only imagine what safeguard she is clutching like a security blanket. Danny and Isaac are back to back, casually resting their weight against each other.

Stiles is nowhere to be found.

Jackson can hear quiet murmurs from the kitchen and the soft noises of someone making breakfast. Moving more quickly, he heads toward the sounds. 

There’s scrambled eggs cooking in a big frying pan on the stove. Stiles is scraping savagely at the egg mixture, eyes flicking up briefly to scowl at Jackson before turning back to his task. At the kitchen table, Derek Hale is slouched over, one hand curled around his stomach. It’s not his standard brand of aloofness or menace, but pure exhaustion is written into the lines of his face. Derek continues, “You have to give him a choice.”

“You’re asking me to put someone in danger without their consent.” Stiles points the eggy spatula in Derek’s direction. “And they can’t fully consent. Do you understand that?”

“It would be the same as if I told Isaac or Scott to stay home. And meant it.”

“What?” Stiles says, his spatula drooping. 

Derek’s head drops further onto his hand. “You can’t always play might makes right. It wouldn’t work for a pack. So werewolves have one central authority who can control the rest of the wolves.” 

“Hobbe’s Leviathan.” Stiles says, mouth gaping. “You’re saying the alpha can order around the rest of the pack?” 

“One central authority.” Derek makes a little ta-da motion. 

“You’re not Scott’s alpha,” Stiles accuses, eyes narrowed.

“There’s still a connection there,” Derek says. “And we need to be united when the alpha pack comes.”

“He said you’ll never be his alpha,” Stiles points out reasonably.

“I don’t care,” Derek growls, banging his forehead on the table, before glaring balefully at Stiles. “They’re coming for everything I have left. And you- six teenagers who don’t know what you’re doing- you’re the only ones that can stop them. So, fine, Scott can be an omega, or his own alpha, or a werewolf hunter. I don’t care. Just so long has he stands with me now.”

“And what do you think you’re going to do with two wolves, one hunter, three humans, and a badly controlled lizard?” Jackson asks, arms crossed over his chest. 

“Wait, there are seven of you now?” Derek counts rather incredulously. 

“Danny figured out something was up with Jackson. Don’t change the subject,” Stiles says, pointing his finger right in Derek’s face. 

Jackson’s pretty sure Derek contemplates just biting Stiles’ finger off for a full second based on how high his eyebrow rise. “After-” Derek gestures mostly futilely at Jackson before continuing quietly, “after, I knew I would need help. So, I negotiated. But frankly-”

“Wait, you negotiated with other packs for an alliance?” Stiles interrupts. 

“Why is this so surprising?” Derek raises his hands in exasperation. "I think it is fairly obvious I need help."

"So reinforcements are coming," Scott says from the doorway. 

"I'm a young, unproven alpha without a pack in a territory that my family abandoned. They have nothing to gain from helping me and every reason to simply let the alpha pack come."

"They've done this before," Lydia says, slipping past Scott's shoulder to grab Jackson's hand. 

Derek nods tightly and Lydia's grip tightens on Jackson's fingers. 

“So we get out-” Jackson says slowly.

“I’m not leaving,” Scott interrupts.

“And I don’t think they’ll let us go without a fight,” Stiles says, watching the way Derek folds a hand across his still recent wounds.

“Or we get ready,” Jackson finishes. 

___

Breakfast starts as a grim affair. 

The mostly forgotten eggs manage to be both rubbery and crunchy, a feat Jackson wouldn’t have previously believed possible.

Gently, Jackson moves Stiles, his spatula and his doomed pan away from the stove. Lydia is already pulling out a clean mixing bowl and a ragged cannister of flour. Jackson scavenges the fridge for eggs, butter, and milk. Thinking quickly, Jackson improvises a simple batter, directing Lydia to fry a handful of wrinkled apples in butter with an eye on the caramel sauce on the backburner. The rest of the group slowly filters into the kitchen, wide-eyed and quiet. Their thoughts are someplace far more bloody than the McCall’s softly lit kitchen. As Jackson and Lydia start turning out caramelized apples smelling of apple pie and delicate crepes, the wolves and the humans start to watch their cooking like a spectator sport.

Jackson knows he’s showing off a bit. But, without baking soda or powder, it wasn’t possible to manage the more common pancakes. It’s oddly satisfying to fill everybody’s belly to the chorus of appreciative sounds. 

Somehow, the food alone makes the news less grim, like a beacon, a safe harbor. Jackson can feel Stiles’ eyes on him again, this time undoubtedly because of his newfound culinary skills. Frankly, he doesn’t understand why it isn’t obvious that with a bit of practice, a person could learn to make anything they wanted to eat.

It wasn’t as if he didn’t eat enough meals alone to want to experiment. 

Long before he’d ever actually bothered trying to impress Lydia. 

Still, dishes are a nightmare. Happily, Allison nudges Scott towards the sink with her hip, and Derek gives Isaac his own version of a nudge toward the dishes on the table.   
__

Jackson’s not exactly sure what he’s supposed to do as he’s pushed out of the kitchen. 

Derek puts a hand on his shoulder, and Jackson flinches back thinking of claws and concrete beneath his knees. 

Derek pulls back, preternaturally fast, and raises his hands as though in surrender. “Stiles and I need to speak to you,” Derek says slowly. He adds,“Privately.” Jackson can feel Lydia’s heat at his shoulder, even as he sees Stiles, scowling, come to stand behind Derek’s. 

“I don’t think so,” she says, all ice and frozen heat. 

“After you then, Ms. Martin,” Derek says formally and gestures for her to lead the way. Stiles scoffs at the stare off that engenders. He ignores them both, and leads them outdoors to the backyard. 

It’s damp and gray and Jackson’s not sure what they’re doing out here in the first place. Someone had better start talking soon. Derek, however, seems content to stare at Stiles intently as though to silently pressure Stiles into talking first. Stiles attempts to communicate that there’s no way he’s going to speak first, or at least, that’s how Jackson’s going to interpret that series of incomprehensible facial expressions and hand motions. 

Apparently, though, Stiles can stay silent for long. Jackson’s pretty sure no one saw that coming. Unfortunately for Stiles, it’s not as long as Derek can. Jackson just wishes someone would say something. Finally, with a huff, Stiles starts, “We’re outnumbered. Derek counts at least five-”

“That’s not outnumbered,” Jackson says patiently.

“I can take down one. Maybe. Isaac and Scott would need help to take down another one,” Derek says quietly like he’s not shattering any hope they might have. He shrugs. 

“Three if we’re lucky.” Lydia points one perfectly painted nail at Derek. “That’s what you’re betting on.”

“And that doesn’t count the fact that Derek might not have seen everyone.” Stiles pointedly looks at Derek who simply shrugs again in response. “Nothing like counting a gun empty when there are still bullets in the chamber.”

“So we make a plan,” Jackson says firmly and he tries to hold to that.

“If you remember,” Stiles starts slowly. “It took all of us to take Peter down last time. Just one alpha.” He shakes his head, all sharp motions. “There is no plan to compensate for these odds."

“Then what are we doing out here?” Lydia asks. 

This time, Stiles succeeds in staring Derek down. Derek leans down to catch Jackson’s eyes, hands in his pockets. “The kanima took down Isaac and Erica and held off Scott and me when we weren’t even targets,” he says slowly. 

Jackson can feel Derek’s gaze, all of their stares, tracking his reaction. And all he can think is... “You want me to kill people,” he says shortly. 

"There are alpha werewolves laying siege on the town you live in," Derek says quietly. "And they're willing to hurt humans and they're not above murder. The time for squeamishness is past."

"You run or you get ready," Lydia whispers and Jackson can feel his nails cutting into his palms at his own words thrown back in his face. 

"What kind of choice is this?" Jackson spits and Stiles' flinch tastes like a bitter victory.

"You can say no," Peter says calmly, separating from the faint shade he'd been lurking in. 

"I say no and how many people die?"

"I never said I personally want you to say no,” Peter says, examining his nails. “Just offering options.”

“And where have you been?” Stiles asks indignantly. Something in Jackson wants to hide him away. Make him keep his head down. Stop him from taunting the psychopathic zombie werewolf. 

Peter sniffs. “You didn’t think Derek was the only one capable of being diplomatic when it is called for, did you? I found us a nice set of allies.”

“How?” Derek asks gruffly.

“There were some conditions attached.” Peter feigns as though he cannot see the way everyone is looking at him expectantly. 

“What conditions?” Derek asks finally, fists clenched.

“Kill the lizard and we’re home free.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once more, endless thanks to my amazing beta fightingtheblankpage


	8. Chapter 8

“Kill the lizard and we’re home free,” Peter says off-handedly.

"No," Derek growls. 

"No," Lydia hisses. 

"No," Stiles says. "We are not yet so desperate." 

A chorus of denials and Jackson wonders if they think their words can make it so. 

"That's what I told them. That you'd never sacrifice one Mouseketeer to save the rest." Peter pauses. "No matter how much of a lie that is. Unfortunately, they turned me down at that. I proved as unsuccessful as my nephew in recruiting ."

"Fat lot of help you are," Stiles mutters. Jackson nudges him in the side, and he subsides with little additional grumbling. 

Jackson takes a deep breath and finally asks,"So how do we do this?" 

___

Apparently, they were going to do this through trial and error. 

Mostly error.

Panting, Jackson throws himself down in the grass beside Stiles. 

“Ready to go again?” Stiles asks, worried eyes taking in the still healing scrapes on Jackson’s skin. 

“Ready when they are,” Jackson says. He is determined not to be the one to stop. 

From further on the field, Scott groans in response. Derek pauses in helping Isaac to his feet. 

“This is the second day of trying. And it’s not going any better,” Derek says.

“Well, what do you want to do about it?” Scott asks exasperatedly.

“Take a break for the night.” 

“Tomorrow’s Monday,” Stiles says.

“So?” Derek asks.

“So, it’s a school day,” Isaac supplies. “Although I’m not averse to skipping.”

“No, it’s- that’s fine,” Derek frowns and finishes hauling Isaac to his feet. “We can pick it back up after.”

One last nod and Derek leaves them, Isaac trailing behind him. Jackson’s still not sure how Derek feels about the expansion of the pack. It’s not his pack exactly, not anymore.

Jackson thinks it might be theirs. 

Scott trades a few words with Isaac. Derek honks the horn in aggravation at the delay. Isaac has to run to get in the Camaro’s passenger seat before Derek pulls out of the drive. Jackson’s pretty sure Derek’s still a jackass hiding in an ally’s clothing. But, hey, they’re short on those. Even a jackass of an ally is nice. 

Scott shuffles his feet when Isaac is gone. 

“I’m sure you’ll figure this out. It’s only been a couple of days,” Scott says. “We’ll work on it again tomorrow.”

“Thank you so much for the encouragement, Scott,” Jackson says with a sneer. “Now run along.”

Scott scoffs back. But Stiles comes to stand at Jackson’s shoulder, and at Stiles’ sharp nod, Scott leaves reluctantly on foot. 

“And what do we plan to do about this?” Jackson asks wearily. “I made this sacrifice. I will not see it go to waste.” 

“I am doing my best,” Stiles responds. “I don’t know how better to command the kanima.”

“Me!” Jackson gives a strangled shout. He continues with a choked voice. “Not the kanima, me. Neither of us need an illusion to excuse what we are doing. We are going to be murderers together, you and I. Might as well be clear about it.”

Stiles looks at him with ancient eyes, before shrugging with his arms spread wide. “With reason. We do what we have to.”

“With reason,” Jackson sighs. “I might have a solution to our little problem.”

“Oh?” 

“Yeah, and neither of us are going to like it.”  
___

Danny answers the door on the third ring of the doorbell. Jackson thinks Danny might still be a wee bit angry about being banned from practice. Granted, Stiles was also rather vengefully pressing the button as fast as possible. 

"What?" Danny says abruptly. That's the Danny Jackson knows. A little bit prickly, a hidden side that is a little bit too gleeful at the misfortune of those he is not fond of. It's why they're friends after all. 

Stiles looks to Jackson, but Jackson did his part in getting them here. Stiles can do the explaining. 

"We need your help," Stiles says finally. 

"You didn't this morning."

"Yeah, well, there were glitches to work out. Can we come in? Please?"

Grudgingly, Danny opens the door an inch wider and, without waiting for them, walks back into the house. 

When they’re all seated around the living room, which at least looks lived in, unlike Jackson’s own house, Danny breaks the awkward silence between them. “You wanted to talk,” Danny says. “So talk.”

“How much do you know about the kanima?” Jackson asks hesitantly.

“What you told me,” Danny replies immediately. 

“And you didn’t research anything on the internet?” Stiles asks shrewdly.

“Most of what’s available doesn’t apply,” Danny replies archly. “Unless Jackson has some sort of taste for revenge that I don’t know about. Or if he’s a were-jaguar.” 

“No and no,” Jacksons says irritably when Danny actually looks at him to confirm that kind of lunacy. He and Danny share a grin for a moment. It’s funny how off the legends and myths tend to be. 

“You saw what he did to Isaac and Scott,” Stiles says quietly. “Surely you can guess why Derek wants his help against the alpha pack.”

“The same thing on a bigger scale,” Jackson adds, trying to hide the faint edge of disgust and panic he still feels for what he did to members of his own almost-pack. 

“The werewolf equivalent of a cavalry,” Danny suggests. 

“Something like that,” Stiles admits. “Only-” and here he hesitates.

“Only we don’t have time for me to figure out how to control it for myself. It took me what, a week just to learn how to partially shift? And even then I couldn’t hold it. Not when I really fought against Scott.” Jackson leans forward, rushing through the words. A deep breath and he swipes his clammy hands against his pants, wanting to simply get this over with. 

“If I can’t control it, but he can...” Jackson tilts his head toward Stiles and lets his voice trail off. 

“You’re giving Stiles total control?” Danny asks, disbelief coloring his voice. 

“I don’t think I have much of a choice,” Jackson says flatly.

“And what’s your part in this?” Danny demands of Stiles, abruptly. “Why are you doing this?”

“I want to keep as many people alive as I can,” Stiles responds calmly. “I don’t think there are any good choices here, so I’m doing the best I can. Same as anyone.”

“This is- This is fucked up.” Danny jerks to his feet and takes a few steps away. 

It all still feels unreal. Not even in his darkest nightmares or wildest fantasies could Jackson have imagined sitting in Danny’s living room, aching to make his best friend understand why he had to give up all free will. 

“That’s not the problem, though,” Jackson says.

Danny sits back down, and runs both his hands through his hair roughly. He laughs, quietly and on the edge of hysteria. “No, giving up all bodily control doesn’t even register on your guys’ radar. Fine. What’s the problem?”

“I- We can’t find the right combination of commands,” Stiles says.

“Glitches,” Danny says mostly to himself. More loudly he adds, “Jackson is not a computer!”

“No, and yet...” Stiles trails off suggestively and waves his hand in a somewhat explanatory manner.

“The kanima sort of is,” Jackson says, shrugging.

Danny looks between the two of them with an expression of surprise and amazement. Jackson thinks it’s not a very good look for him. Then again, it’s rather a rare moment to see his best friend lose his equanimity. Probably why Danny managed to be his best friend for so long.

“Fine. So what the hell went wrong?” 

Jackson and Stiles share a look. 

“Everything,” Jackson says finally. 

“Really,” Danny says flatly. “Everything.” 

He folds his arms and leans back further into his chair. He waves his hand for them to continue. “By all means go on.”

Awkwardly, Stiles pulls out a folded sheet of notebook paper. There’s mud stains and blood stains and other stains that Jackson doesn’t want to think too hard about. One last peek for Jackson’s approval, and Stiles reluctantly hands it over.

Danny raises an eyebrow at the state of the page and then the other one when he reads the commands written on the page. 

“Really?” Danny asks again. 

Jackson shrugs uncomfortably.

“Why is there a clause about personal safety?”

“Because apparently, if it takes down a werewolf, the kanima doesn’t mind getting hamstringed. Or gutted,” Stiles replies. Stiles reserves his glare for Jackson, but some of it rebounds off onto Danny. 

“And personal property?” 

“There might have been an incident with Derek’s camaro,” Jackson says shamefacedly.

“Apparently, it makes a great hostage if you want to manipulate one Derek Hale,” Stiles explains helpfully.

“Is there something about the sanctity of human life in here?”

“Allison and Scott, Scott and Allison, apparently relatively easy to manipulate, too,” Stiles says.

“And protecting you in particular, Stiles?”

“That was my addition,” Jackson says hesitantly. “I don’t- I would rather not be up for grabs.”

“Ah,” Danny says, clearing his throat and shuffling the papers. Jackson can see how he very studiously avoids looking at Stiles.

“Look,” Jackson speaks up to break the tension. “We just need you to fix the loopholes or whatever. It’s- that’s basically what computer programming is anyway, right? Just. Please?”

“Yeah. Sure. Fine. I’ll do it,” Danny says, already distracted. Jackson can recognize the look on Danny’s face as a sign that he’s already working through the problem. 

Danny hardly looks up as Jackson pulls Stiles back to the front door. 

“So, that’s it?” Stiles asks. 

“For now,” Jackson says, scuffing his shoes on the floor. “That’s the best I’ve got.”

“Yeah well,” Stiles heads out. But Jackson could have sworn he heard him say, “Still have to do better.” 

___

At loose ends, Jackson ends up wandering to Lydia's house. Her mom helpfully points him to the basement before running out the door to her Pilates class. Or maybe it's yoga. It's not like he cares.

Even at the top of the stairs, Jackson can smell something acrid and mildly nauseating. Without pausing to think, he thunders down the stairs, through the cushy movie space, through the bar area, and back into the unfinished basement. 

Lydia meets his panicked gaze with wide eyes. Ripping off her safety googles, she pulls him back into the TV room. She runs her hands over him, and somewhere in the back of his mind, Jackson realizes she's checking for injuries because he's doing the exact same thing.

"What the hell? What the hell are you doing, Lyds?"

"What the hell am I? You dumbass! I'm trying to make an aerosolized wolfsbane!" Lydia smacks him across the chest. 

Jackson blinks in confusion. 

Lydia shakes the heavy duty air filter she’d been using in his face. 

“We still don’t know what wolfsbane would do to your system,” she warns. “You’re not exactly human anymore.” 

“What?” Jackson asks stupidly. Sometimes she makes him feel so damned slow.

“You didn’t think I would sit idly by. Not after Derek’s speech...thing.” Lydia shrugs and brushes her hair off her forehead. “I can’t fight, I can’t help your special project, but I can do this.”

“So you’re making werewolf teargas,” he says dryly. 

“Something like that,” Lydia says, distracted again by whatever problem she’s trying to solve. “The conveyance is the problem. Aconite-the wolfsbane- is toxic to humans as well. I can’t very well have us poisoning each other.” 

“Aconite poisoning. I know that feeling.” 

They’re silent for a moment, both caught in their own thoughts. 

“So, how is your project going?” Lydia asks off-handedly. 

Jackson shrugs. “It’s not...going well exactly. I asked Danny to take a look at the- the orders? I don’t suppose you’d be able to take a look.”

“Not so much, no,” Lydia says.

“Do you even really think that Peter is that big of a threat anymore?”

“I think underestimating him would be one of the stupidest things we could do,” Lydia finally focuses back on him. “Don’t- Don’t ever give him a shot at you.”

Jackson shifts uncomfortably. The venom in her voice is something he’s unused to. He didn’t think she could hate someone like that. Her dislike had always been this frosted over thing, a freezing out, never this desire to watch someone ripped to pieces and burned alive. 

Jackson’s pretty sure that if Peter Hale was on fire, Lydia wouldn’t even piss on him to put him out.

"And you and Stiles?" Eyes sharp, she must catch his attempt to hide his grimace. She sighs and adds impatiently, "Don't play dumb with me."

"It's professional," Jackson says finally. It might not capture the full awkwardness of watching Stiles avoid him at every turn, but it's the best he's got. "He would never hurt you."

Lydia looks at him shrewdly, catching the faintest hints of longing in his voice that Jackson had tried to squash. "And you?" she asks. "Would you hurt me?"

It hurts, that lack of trust. "You know me. I would never- you know me."

She shushes him and wraps her arms around him for a long moment. "White arms pressed around him as though forever" he thinks to himself. And he feels like Odysseus, journeys far beyond what he's always known, his own body transforming with the gods' will, desperate for familiar arms and safe harbor. Desperate to be known.

It's soothing and he simply breathes for a long moment.

"And if you could have us both?" Lydia asks even more quietly. 

Jackson doesn't have an answer. 

___

 

Monday comes too early. 

Jackson feels like supernatural werewolf business should be a good enough excuse for school. He suspects his parents would disagree and now more than ever he needs to not give them a reason to look too closely at how he's spending his time. 

His morning classes pass in a blur of pop quizzes and boring lectures and illegible notes. He sighs. He'll have to ask to copy Lydia's. 

He slides into his seat at what had officially been claimed as the pack's table with a breath of relief, well, that and a vain hope the school lunch won't suck. Everyone else looks to be in a similar state of boredom. Although Stiles looks more exhausted than bored. Jackson spares a moment to consider Stiles’ nocturnal activities before quickly shying away from that train of thought. His moment of daydreaming is broken by the realization that someone is missing. He swallows his mouthful of apple. "Where's Isaac?" he asks Scott. 

It's Danny who answers, though. "Apparently he is allergic to feelings."

"It's his own problem if he doesn't want to sit here," Lydia seconds. Jackson looks between the two of them, trying to figure out when his best friend and his girlfriend became friends on their own terms. 

Scott just looks torn between keeping quiet and defending Isaac. Allison's hand on his shoulder stops him. 

“We have a problem,” she says.  
___

Thank God, some of their number understands what someone can do with a surveillance tape. Which is how they all end up holed up in a rarely used hallway created by renovations of the athletic wing. 

It smells alarmingly of gym socks, but there’s no cameras and there’s a measure of privacy.They group together loosely. Stiles stands closest to the door, Danny lounges against the wall, Allison and Scott make up a single unit again, and Lydia stares at her nails like they’re more interesting than anything Allison has to say.

“My father wants to negotiate,” Allison says hesitantly. 

“Negotiate,” Stiles says flatly. “Like Gerard negotiates?”

Apparently the Argents are still not to be trusted. Scott subconsciously touches his side. Stiles looks angry and Jackson thinks he can still see a bruise on Stiles’ cheek.

Danny, either oblivious to the tension in the room or purposely ignoring it, asks, “Who would he negotiate with?”

It’s a valid question. Allison’s right out. Jackson’s not sure if he could find a better example of conflict of interest if he tried. Isaac isn’t here and he isn’t exactly the best choice regardless. Danny gets neither the history nor the nuances of interactions between these disparate groups. Jackson, himself, isn’t tied enough to the pack. He can’t speak for Derek or Scott or Isaac. And neither can Lydia or Stiles. Not to mention the fact that Lydia and Stiles would both be loath to give up the element of surprise they hold so dear. 

In the privacy of his mind, Jackson can find it amusing how similar they are. Lydia with her firebombs was the key the last time they took down an alpha, and yet she plays a vapid, popular girl at school. Stiles has set the strategy of Scott’s mini pack and yet he would never claim a spot as pack authority. They both move best when they’re underestimated and neither would give that up. 

It doesn’t surprise Jackson at all to see the two of them in some kind of silent argument. 

“With whom, darling,” Lydia says finally, before adding, “Derek, if possible.”

Allison looks like she wants to object. Jackson doesn’t know her family’s whole history, but based on Gerard’s actions alone, Jackson can guess that the Argents have plenty of skeletons in their closet. Jackson can say from experience that sometimes monsters are human. After all, the kanima wasn’t so bad before Matt and Gerard got their grubby hands on it-him.

“Derek?” Scott asks incredulously. 

“Well, do you want it, McCall?” Jackson asks. He can’t help it if his tone turns it into more of a scoff. 

“No,” Scott sulks. 

“The better question is-” Danny says, looking around the group. “Who’s going to tell him?”

___

Jackson draws the short straw. 

Literally.

Fine, it’s technically the short blade of grass, but it was that or rock, paper, scissors. Debating over this with Scott and Isaac was immature enough already, thank you very much. Not that Stiles, if he had managed to avoid getting detention from Harris, would have added much to the conversation. 

So, before Jackson gets back to trying to kick the wolves’ furry asses in round three of kanima training, Scott and Isaac murmur something about warming up and disappear. 

Leaving Jackson with Derek.

Alone.

Jackson’s still trying to figure out if Derek’s eyebrows are indicating anger or curiosity when he opens his mouth to explain, hopefully in a tactful manner, why Derek has to go negotiate with the family that burned his house down. With his family inside. 

Instead what comes out is- “Why do you hate them?"

“What?” Derek asks. Yeah, he’s not going to win any alpha of the year awards like that.

“The Argents?"

Derek visibly gapes at him. “Besides the fire?”

“It’s just this is something beyond revenge. Peter took that when he killed Kate, but you didn’t raise a hand against her. Why?”

Derek is silent for a moment. Jackson wants to shift beneath his gaze, but holds himself steady instead. They are beyond their past interactions. And Derek isn’t trying to scare him, not precisely. To Jackson, it seems that Derek is trying to understand exactly how Jackson ticks. Finally, Derek says, “I’m not rummaging for skeletons in your closet. What do you want?”

Jackson accepts the tacit acknowledgement of something between Kate and Derek and moves onto the real business at hand. “The pack needs you to negotiate on its behalf with Chris Argent.”

“The pack?” Derek says sarcastically. “The one that’s mostly humans and werewolves who refuse to recognize me as alpha? That pack?”

There’s a bitterness there that Jackson doesn’t want to touch. But luck of the draw and all that. 

“You’re the only one who can speak for the pack,” Jackson persists. “The only one who knows what hunters are capable of doing in their fanaticism.” 

Derek looks distracted, head tilted like he is searching out some far off thing. “Fine,” he says finally, staring Jackson down all the while. Raising his voice a bit, Derek adds, “And you two can stop hiding now.”

A sheepish Scott and Isaac come back into the open. 

“Where’s the rest of you?” Derek asks impatiently.

“Allison thought it might be awkward for her to be here,” Scott explains.

“Danny’s helping Lydia, I think,” Jackson adds.

“And Stiles got in trouble with Harris. Again,” Isaac finishes, playing with his wolf claws. He tilts his head and the rest of the pack catches the same sound of tires, and that weird ticking of the engine that could only be Stiles’ jeep. “Oh, look. Perfect timing.”

Stiles stumbles more than hops out of his jeep, his long legs nearly dumping him on his ass. Stiles yawns and rubs his eyes. He seems to focus blearily on the group before ignoring them, and heading for the Hale house, long strides eating up the ground. He ditches his backpack on the porch with a rather ominous thump. 

“What?” Stiles says, combing irritation and impatience into an even more unpleasant mix. “Couldn’t start without me?” 

“Had to ask Derek for a favor,” Jackson says, with a meaningful raise of his eyebrow. They had just talked about this at school. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles says and frowns. He rubs at his temples for a moment, but then shakes off whatever worry has him so tense like a dog shaking off water. 

“You ready?” Scott calls out to Stiles, concern bleeding through his forced cheerfulness. Jackson sometimes forgets how close Scott and Stiles were. Mostly because they aren’t, exactly, now.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Stiles says, and without further ado, pulls out the edited list of commands. “Let’s do this.”

___

It doesn't go any more smoothly than previous attempts did.

As Jackson lands on his back with an audible thump and a hopefully more inaudible groan, he can’t help but hope that this is the last try. The cuts and bruises and lacerations might not show once they’ve been covered with scales, but he swears he can feel each, still beneath his skin. 

There’s an ache building in his muscles and his bones, and he’s tired. Derek is limping still, waiting for the shattered bones in his foot to heal. Scott’s growling somewhere off to his side, because, yeah, he might have brought Jackson down, but having his shoulder ripped to shreds is a high price. Isaac is still paralyzed on the front porch. 

Stiles is sitting on the porch steps, his head buried in his hand. Maybe he feels Jackson's eyes upon him, but as he pushes the heels of his hands into the hollows of his eyes, he catches Jackson’s gaze and smiles ruefully. 

“This isn’t working, is it?” Stiles says, regret dripping from his voice. 

Maybe only Jackson can hear it, because Derek growls in response. “We’re not giving up,” Derek says. 

Scott scowls at Derek. “We’re doing our best.”

“Yeah, well, your best is going to get you and your friends killed,” Derek says. 

Isaac pushes himself up with a groan. “Not to break up the married couple’s bickering, but I thought we were doing something?”

Both Derek and Scott glare at him in response. 

“Ooh, double bitch stare,” Isaac mutters under his breath. Jackson notes that it’s loud enough to carry to both Derek or Scott, but Isaac doesn’t even flinch. Jackson will never say that Isaac doesn’t have balls. 

Stiles coughs to bring the focus back on him. “Regardless, Derek needs to work out the meeting with Chris Argent tomorrow. I need to talk to Lydia about her wolfsbane project. And I know for a fact that Scott still hasn’t started the English paper that is due tomorrow.”

The fact that Isaac immediately scowls in response, makes Jackson think that he didn’t start that paper either. Jackson’s mostly done. It’s the upside and downside of dating Lydia. Upside: his paper’s almost done. Downside: procrastination isn’t really an option.

“We have time,” Jackson says hesitantly. 

“And if we survive, I have plans to go to college, which involves not failing English,” Stiles adds. 

“Right, we can meet again tomorrow,” Scott says brightly. Or as brightly as he can be with his shoulder still healing. Sometimes his optimism is alarming. 

At Derek’s nod and eyeroll, the group sort of breaks up, still curving protectively over their hurts. Jackson winces as he gets to his feet, then heads for his Porsche. Stiles is already in his jeep and pulling away. Isaac’s leaning against the Camaro. 

Scott’s got his bike and is pulling on his helmet when Derek calls out to him. “I need you to talk to Allison about tomorrow.”

“Okaaay,” Scott says slowly. “She’s not getting involved in whatever talk you guys have. It’s not safe for her.”

“That’s not-what?” Derek says. “She’s incapacitated Isaac at least twice.”

“Hey!” Isaac yells. Jackson, Derek, and Scott look at him with a combination of amusement, curiosity, and smugness. 

“Yeah, go on, tell us all about how a girl got the best of you,” Jackson says. 

“Shut up Jackson,” Isaac says. “It’s not like Lydia doesn’t have you wrapped around her little finger.”

“Regardless,” Derek continues. “She can pass a message on to her dad easily enough. He wants to negotiate, the two of us can meet at the Hale house. If he brings company, I will know, and I won’t show up. Got it?”

“Yeah, fine,” Scott says. 

“You want to meet with the Argents alone?” Isaac asks. There’s something plaintive in his tone. If Jackson didn’t know better, he’d guess that Isaac cares for his alpha after all. 

“That way none of you can screw it up,” Derek says. Unspoken is the fact that that way none of them could get hurt. Unspoken and intended to remain so. Jackson would grant that Derek was trying. Hell, they were all trying.

The question remains if their attempts would be enough.

___

The next day is Tuesday. Jackson is no more fond of Tuesdays than he is of Mondays. 

School is boring and annoying. It’s interfering with their efforts to save not only their asses, but also the town’s. The whole thing is pointless and is only going to be more pointless if they all die when the alpha pack comes. 

It’s also stopping them from watching over the meeting between one Derek Hale and Allison’s dad. Jackson will admit that it’s a clever strategy by Mr. Argent to ensure that the teen wolves will be otherwise occupied. It still makes the clock at the front of his classrooms seem to move even slower. 

They won’t know what happened until lunch. And the morning classes are dragging.

Jackson knows from experience how well Danny can hold a grudge. He doesn’t really think twice about Danny avoiding any group that involves Isaac for a while, even if he doesn’t know what the hell happened between the two of them. 

He doesn’t think twice, until it’s fourth period English where a paper worth twenty percent of their grade is due. And Danny, he of the impeccable grades, is nowhere to be found. 

That’s not normal. 

And they’re already on high alert. Jackson thinks it makes perfect sense that he call to check on his errant best friend. 

He makes his excuses to Mrs. Mendelson, and ducks out of the classroom. From the relative privacy of the boy’s restroom, he calls Danny’s cell. 

It rings three times and just as Jackson is expecting it to go to voicemail, Danny finally picks up. 

“Danny?” Jackson says slowly when all he can hear are breathing noises.

“Jackson, I”m okay, but-”

Danny’s voice is cut off abruptly. Jackson feels his blood grow cold as he hears Peter Hale say, “This would be the part where I say something threatening, but frankly, I think you more than anyone are aware of the kind of destruction a supernatural creature can wreak when provoked. To that end, I suggest that if you want to see your friend alive, you meet me at the warehouse.”

Jackson can feel his hands clenching in his response to his total impotence. Because Peter Hale has his best friend. And he-

Jackson doesn’t even know how long Danny’s been missing. What the hell kind of friend is he?

Peter Hale continues when Jackson shows no sign of finding words anytime soon. “I’m sure you’ll say something about how if I hurt him- blah, blah, blah. We both know how that will end. And Jackson,” he pauses almost delicately, as though that could apply to Peter Hale. “Come alone.”


	9. Chapter 9

If there’s one thing that hostage movies should teach people. It’s that when they say come alone, you never go alone. It’s a trap. It’s cold and hard logic.

And it’s not comforting now. Not when Danny’s life is hanging on the line. It’s impossible to guess what Peter Hale might do.

Well, impossible for Jackson, maybe.

But that’s what Lydia is for. 

Only-only the one person who Lydia feared would be on the other side. Feared not because of who he is, but of what he could force her to do. 

That’s not acceptable. 

He’s not so blind as to believe that Lydia needs him to be her chivalrous knight in armor. Frankly, if he ever hears her diatribe about outdated honor codes one more time, it will be too soon. 

But in this at least, he can protect her from further trauma. So, it's Stiles' classroom he lingers by until the bell rings, and Stiles not Lydia that Jackson drags through the meandering back hallways. Jackson's pleased that Stiles seems to at least understand his urgency enough to stay quiet and follow him. 

Well, stay quiet until Jackson's out an overlooked side door and headed for the parking lot. "Jackson, is this a kanima thing?" Stiles asks hesitantly. 

Jackson swallows a wave of fear and despair and loneliness, ignoring the cold feeling of scales crawling across his shoulder blades. "Peter made his move," Jackson says roughly. "He took Danny."

Stiles is silent a moment, frozen in place. Jackson swears he can see the calculations taking place, chess moves studied from all sides linked together with surety. Stiles' hands are shaking, but his face is calm and still. 

Then he's moving with purpose and Jackson's the one to follow. "Derek and Chris Argent are at the Hale house. Peter won't have taken Danny there." 

"So where do we go?" Jackson asks. 

"Danny's house," Stiles says hopping into the passenger's seat. "We need to trace a cell phone."

____

Getting to Danny's house was easy. Getting inside was a different story. 

"I don't want to tell Danny's family," Jackson says, craning his neck to see Danny's porch from the driver's window. 

"So...back door?" Stiles asks. 

"No," Jackson says. "His little sister's still in kindergarten, and she'll be back soon, which means his mom's probably at home." He looks dubiously at the closed garage door. There's no way to tell who was home. 

"Can't you hear heartbeats or something?" Stiles asks plaintively.

Jackson tried not to show how idiotic he felt. There was something about almost losing one of the only people who truly cared about him that made him forget just how much he was bringing to the table. He might not be able to take down Peter Hale on his own, but this? He could do this. 

Which led to Jackson scrambling up the siding beneath Danny’s window, pulling Stiles up behind him quietly. He lands gently on the balls of his feet, sound softened by the thick carpeting thankfully. Stiles mostly flops across the sill. Thankfully not too heavily. 

“What?” He mouthes at Jackson as he jerks his shirts back into order. Under his breath he mutters, “Not everyone can be a werewolf, dude.”

Jackson snorts and then looks around Danny’s room. He’s still not sure what they’re doing here.

Stiles, though, strides determinedly over to Danny’s computer. He looks oddly comfortable there and Jackson’s eyes narrow. 

“You’ve been here before?” Jackson whispers. 

“We’re lab partners,” Stiles whispers back distractedly, already tapping at keys. “Ah, thought so!”

“What?” Jackson asks. 

“He left us a clue,” Stiles says. Then he frowns. “Or two. There’s a trace on a cell phone.”

“What’s the number?” Jackson asks, pushing Stiles aside to see for himself. "That's not Danny's cell."

"No, it's also not at the warehouse, but I don't know-"

"Let me," Jackson says taking the wheelie chair for himself, along with the keyboard. He extracted the most recent coordinates, shoved them into google maps, and overlaid the satellite imagery. The coordinates marked somewhere in the woods surrounding the Hale house, on the outskirts of Beacon Hills. 

"Can you map past coordinates?"

It took longer than Jackson was willing to spend, a constant countdown running in the back of his head. How long since the phone call?

Still, a few hasty lines of code thrown together revealed an obvious pattern. Something or someone was circling Beacon Hills. 

"You said clues, right? Because I got nothing from this," Jackson says reluctantly. 

"Let me try," Stiles says with a sly smile. 

From the quick flashes of windows Jackson could see, Stiles was starting multiple searches for hidden folders, most recently altered documents, and any unnecessary comments in the still open code. 

"You're not going to find anything that way," Jackson says just as one of the search windows ping. 

"Unless Danny wants us to find it," Stiles crows. 

"Where is it?" 

"No, it's a message," Stiles says uncertainly. “The tracking one was the alphas, I think, and there’s a number here.”

“Phone number? Coordinates? Address? Something?” Jackson asks impatiently. 

“Cell. It’s says to call it,” Stiles says hesitantly. 

Jackson is already punching the number into his phone. It rings enough times to make Jackson more tense than he needs to be. Finally it goes to voicemail, and there’s that automatic voice saying that the number can’t be reached, but if you want to reach- “Chris Argent,” a man’s voice inserts and Jackson shuts his phone immediately. 

“If you wanted to, oh I don’t know, destroy the pack’s chance of making an alliance with the hunters, what would you do?” Jackson asks slowly.

“I’d set it up to look like Derek killed Chris Argent,” Stiles says without hesitation. “Why- oh no. Oh no, please say that’s not what Peter plans to do.”

Downstairs, Jackson could hear someone headed toward the stairs. Apparently discretion and being quiet wasn’t one of their strong points.

“Yep, can’t say that,” Jackson says. “And we’ve spent too much time here, already. Call Scott, or the pack, send them to Derek, but we need to go after Danny.”

“What?”

“We need to move now before someone finds us in Danny’s bedroom,” Jackson says hurriedly, basically pushing Stiles out the window. 

They disappear over the sill just as the doorknob starts to turn. 

___

Danny wakes up with a hand on his jaw and another lightly slapping him awake. 

There is no comforting haze or momentary confusion when he can believe that this is just a dream that he’ll awaken from. That he could reach his bed by opening his eyes. 

No, Danny knows instantly that he is not where he should be. There’s something chemical at the back of his throat and the feel of strange hands still lingers, making him shiver in revulsion.

Another pat to his cheek and Danny is up and moving at the same time that his eyes are opening. He’s hoping to take him by surprise or maybe more instinctually to run from this threat. 

Regardless, he doesn’t get very far. There’s a hand on his chest now, holding him down. Blinking, Danny can only get blurry images. There’s a two blond teens in the corner lounging against the wall with their arms crossed, and they scares Danny. It’s like one of those nature documentaries with the crocodiles and the baby wildebeests. They both have too many too sharp teeth. 

As Danny looks up, the hand on his chest resolves itself into a familiar face, well, familiar by description only. But the number of men in Beacon Hills with dark hair, blue eyes, and a neatly trimmed goatee is small enough for Danny to make an educated guess. 

“Peter Hale,” he manages to rasp. “Fancy seeing you here.”

The one of the lookers-on laughs and Peter Hale glares at him briefly before focusing back on Danny. Over his shoulder, Danny watches as the one teen makes a rude gesture in their direction. The other punches the first in the arm and then, what must twins, Danny figures, leave. 

“I need to go see about your friends now. They only just noticed you were missing,” Peter says smoothly. 

“I did everything you asked me to,” Danny says defensively. 

“And I’m sure you left some sort of notes for your friends amidst all the tracking I asked you to do, but I don’t think that will matter. Who do you think will come for you?”

The change in subject feels abrupt to Danny, especially the offhand recognition of what he was so sure Peter would kill him for. 

“They’ll all come,” Danny says, and it should be defiant and proud, but it just sounds tired. “That’s what pack means.”

"Loyalty." There's something almost like a smile lingering around Peter's mouth, but it doesn't quite fit his face. "You'll make an excellent member of a pack someday. But your rabble won't be finding you. And we won't stop until the kanima is dead."

"You've made an alliance," Danny observes. 

"I chose the right side," Peter says. "While I'm gone, you should think very clearly about what side you're going to choose." Peter moves even closer, his breath hot on Danny's face. Softly he says, "Because Beacon Hills will be mine." 

There is the fire of fanaticism in his eyes. With one last pat to Danny's cheek, Peter turns to go. 

“It could be yours, too,” Peter adds just before he leaves.

The outraged denial dies on Danny’s lips. 

Beacon Hills is his- is theirs. 

And sometimes it scares him, what he’d be willing to do to keep it.  
___

Jackson overhears Stiles’ conversation when they both are in the car. He can’t help it in the enclosed interior, so he tells himself it doesn’t truly count as eavesdropping.

“Scott!” Stiles says. Jackson can hear Scott asking where the hell Stiles went and what the hell was he thinking, but Stiles bulldozes ahead. “I can’t tell you that. Scott, Scott! Shut up. Look, tell Allison and Isaac that the alphas are going to attack the negotiations between Derek and Argent. You need to get out to the Hale house now!”

“And where are you going?” Scott asks, one part indignant, one part worried. 

“We need to take care of something,” Stiles says, scrubbing his hands over his scalp again. “Listen, if we don’t get back to you, find us at the warehouse, okay? But take care of Derek first, promise me.”

Scott sounds like he wants to protest, but he promises grudgingly. 

“Good,” Stiles says finally. His voice cracks a bit, and Jackson figures that Stiles is the one who knows best exactly how dangerous these situations are. “I’ll see you later, okay?” 

Stiles hangs up

“Your dad-”

“We’re not telling my dad about this,” Stiles commands. It’s the first time in a long time that Stiles had used that tone on him, outside of what was needed for the kanima. Stiles must realize that too, because he shakes his head abruptly. “No, I’m sorry, please, you are free to tell whoever you need or want to. It’s just my dad doesn’t know about this. I can’t endanger him like that. Please, can you understand that?”

“Of course,” Jackson says woodenly. It’s so easy to forget what’s between them, sometimes. 

He drives on.

____

There are no cars waiting around the warehouse, but Jackson doesn’t spend much time searching out the various hidden parking places. Not when Stiles sprints from the car even before Jackson can throw it in park. 

Jackson thinks that it’s worry for his dad that makes Stiles forget who is the indestructible one here. Well, that, and apparently strategy as Stiles handsignals furiously for him to come in one of the myriad escapeholes Derek had made sure were present in his hideout. 

Jackson has to admit that there was no one else who made as good of a distraction as Stiles. 

“Derek!” Stiles calls as though that were the reason for his visit. “Peter? Anybody? I know what the alphas are planning!”

Jackson observes from his darkened listening post. Stiles is the bait here and Jackson is the trap. Stiles lures Peter out, Jackson-as-the-kanima stops him, they rescue Danny, everyone goes home happy. 

Only, instead, it’s Lydia who walks out of the creepy ass subway tracks. She looks furious and scared, and she’s not saying anything. 

She stops a good twenty feet from Stiles, and just stands there, clenching and unclenching her hands. 

“Lydia?” Stiles asks hesitantly. “What are you doing here? Why aren’t you at school?”

Peter sidles up around her, one arm slung casually around her shoulders, a hand that could become clawed in an instant a careful threat against her throat. Lydia bristles beneath his attentions, but makes no move to throw him off. 

“Is anyone else here?” Peter asks Stiles pleasantly. 

“Well, you’re here, shouldn’t you know?” Even from where he’s hiding, Jackson can hear the way Stiles’ heart is beating fast, but there’s no stutter, no hint of a lie. He’d applaud Stiles’ ingenuity. Only he can’t move until Peter is less of a threat to Lydia.

“Amusing as ever, Mr. Stilinski,” Peter says. “But, I rather prefer to spend my company with Mr. Whittemore. Jackson, if you wouldn’t mind coming down here?”

Jackson hesitates for a crucial moment, and Stiles makes the start of a hasty retreat, and it all comes to naught with one claw caught at the hinge of Lydia’s jaw. 

One claw, one point of pressure dimpling the skin of her neck, and it’s Lydia. Lydia’s life on the line.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Peter adds. “I made that sound like a request, when it was a command. Get your ass down here. Now.”

Jackson climbed down warily, watching as Stiles circles around to get in Peter’s blindspot.

Only Peter is too clever for that, pulling a still unresisting Lydia closer to the solid mass of the subway train, protecting his back from unseen attacks. 

“What do you want?” Stiles asks flatly. Jackson and Stiles are both watching Peter closely for an opening, any opening.

“I want what you want, Stiles,” Peter says smoothly. “I want someone else in charge of the kanima. Me, preferably.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Jackson can hear Stiles’ heartbeat hitch. He’s lying. And if Jackson can hear it...

“This again. I can hear you lying,” Peter says. His claw twitches in time to his words. Both Stiles and Jackson move forward as the tip moves ever closer to the hollow of Lydia’s neck. 

“Ah-ah-ah,” Peter sing-songs, wagging his finger back and forth in warning. “No closer. The truth, Mr. Stilinski.”

Stiles closes his eyes, just for a moment, but Jackson can see all of the calculations in his face, just for that bare instant. 

“Fine. Yes, I was looking for a way to change who controlled the kanima, but it doesn’t work the way I wanted it to,” Stiles says finally.

“You were looking for some ritual that’s bloodless,” Peter says, and now the madness in his eyes becomes painfully obvious. “There’s always blood involved in something so intimate. You should know that by now.”

Matching action to words, Peter draws a thin trail of blood, tracing Lydia’s tendon, held in tension by the way she is trying to get as far away from him as possible. Jackson’s weirdly glad to see proof that Lydia is still there, still fighting.

“Aw, well,” Peter says. “Back to the original plan, then.”

It all crystallizes for Jackson the instant before Peter moves. 

Peter wants the kanima for himself. He was willing to see if Stiles had found an alternative. But, there was always going to be only one way to change who had power over the kanima.

Peter drops Lydia like she's nothing and lunges for Stiles. 

And Jackson's there, catching Peter's claws in his shoulder. He snarls in pain, but better his shoulder than Stiles' heart. 

Peter pulls out with a sickening sound. 

“You can make this easy, Jackson,” Peter cajoles. “Can’t you feel how much better we would be together?”

And the thing is, Jackson can. Peter is revenge and anger, wrought into a tool he can wield. Everything that Peter does is for his own purpose. That kind of clarity, that thirst for revenge, pulls at the kanima, in a way that scares Jackson. 

It unbalances him at a time where he needs every bit of luck he can muster. 

Peter attacks: a feint at Jackson’s throat and a very real punch to his already wounded shoulder. Jackson staggers back. 

But not to retreat. He needs to stay between Peter and Stiles, because that’s checkmate, right there. 

It’s also a liability. 

Jackson takes two bodyblows and a clawed tear across the back of his calf, severing his Achilles’ tendon for the moment. He manages to hit Peter with a haymaker, hard enough to make him stagger back. 

It’s enough to give him breathing space. 

“Stiles, I need to change now,” Jackson pants, one hand holding what he hopes aren’t cracked ribs. 

Stiles doesn’t say anything and Jackson becomes more desperate. 

Peter circles him purposefully, and still Jackson stays between him and Stiles. “Haven’t quite worked out the kinks yet?” Peter asks, something almost playful in his tone. It’s echoed in the way Peter closes for a quick one-two attack. 

It’s a cat and mouse game, with Jackson stuck perpetually like a mouse, and like this, when Jackson’s still human, it’s not much of a game at all. 

“Anger won’t do it for me. Stiles! Now!” Jackson yells. 

“Jackson, change!” Stiles commands. 

There’s that icy feeling of scales running up his skin, and a deeper burn where his tendon reattaches and his ribs pull back into place. 

Jackson flexes fists that end in claws. He can feel the way his face is pulled into a snarl, and he doesn’t care.

Now it’s a fair fight. 

Well, fair fight of sorts. 

Jackson punches Peter hard enough that he’s left spitting blood, but it doesn’t take him down for good. And that’s the only way Jackson can see this ending. 

Then Peter’s there, claws encircling both of his wrists. Peter knees him in the belly, and Jackson wheezes as he’s pushed back. There’s a pain in his skull, and Jackson figures Peter must have headbutted him, but it doesn’t matter much now, because Jackson is on his knees with Peter’s full weight bearing down. 

Jackson drops under the pressure. For one moment, Peter’s grinning face is inches from his own. Then Jackson uses Peter’s own momentum against him, flipping him to land on his back with a groan. 

Jackson laboriously gets to his feet, only to realize his mistake.

Peter is between him and Stiles. 

He has a moment to catch Stiles’ terrified gaze, somehow determined as hell, even in the face of near certain death. 

Jackson’s already lunging for whatever shield he can make of his own body, all the while knowing that it’s too late. 

Only then there’s a metal cannister, hitting the side of Peter’s head with perfect aim. Smoke starts billowing from it instantaneously. Smoke it hurts to breathe in. 

Surely this must be the result of Lydia’s project. 

Jackson turns to Lydia, automatically, and there she is in all her glory and righteous fury. 

“Fuck you,” she spits. “For thinking I wouldn’t fight back.” 

Peter growls from where he’s fallen. 

Stiles, already backing toward the entrance, one sleeve over his nose and mouth, yells, “Let’s move. He’s not down yet.”

Jackson takes Lydia’s hand in his. Together they run for the exit, right on Stiles’ heels. 

Peter’s howls follow them out.

____

 

They pile into the car haphazardly and Jackson leaves rubber on the pavement in his hurry to just get away from here. 

“The others?” Jackson asks urgently. 

“They’re fine,” Stiles says without hesitating. 

“Really?” Lydia’s back to raised eyebrows and carefully crafted expressions. The wildness is all stored away behind her eyes, in the minute trembling of her hands. She's using her sleeve to mop up the blood on her neck. It's going to ruin the cloth, but the need to get it off her skin must be stronger than any such concerns.

“Allison sent updates,” Stiles says firmly. 

“Danny?” Jackson asks tightly.

“What?” Lydia adds and Jackson forgot she doesn’t know what brought them here. 

“Peter took Danny, presumably to track Chris Argent’s location,” Stiles says shortly. "He's still missing."

"Where do we look for him?" Jackson asks. It's obvious. They shouldn't stop looking until they find him. There's a plan in here somewhere, enough that it feels as though they should be able to divine the next move. Only each move on the chessboard raises more questions,any threads of logic he can gather in his hands are tangled and slipping, pointing to nothing and everything. 

It’s silent in the car; Jackson is still driving mechanically back to familiar streets, as though that will be enough to protect them. He doesn’t know what else to do. 

“I know where he’s keeping him,” Lydia says into the still frozen silence. 

“What?” Stiles says, not disbelieving exactly, but somehow closed down. 

“Remember the bit in the last Harry Potter book?” Lydia adds, a weak smile spreading across her lips. 

“You can guess his plans post-possession. Great. Does that analogy make Peter Lord Voldemort?” Stiles asks absently.

“Well, he did rise from the dead, but on the other hand, he’s not quite reptilian enough. Nose,” Jackson offers. Both Lydia and Stiles look at him with mirrored looks of surprise. If they just got how similar they were, those two could be a force of nature. “What? I read!”

“Hale house,” Lydia says. Stiles seems to still be shaking his head over the discovery that Jackson is literate. Jackson is trying not to be too offended. 

“Why there?” Jackson asks.

“Danny has skills that would make him valuable, to the right alpha,” Stiles guesses.

Lydia nods firmly. “It’s like saving him for later, for the beginning of Peter’s pack.”

“I have never hated an alliterative phrase more,” Jackson says sarcastically. His mind is already filled with the horrors that would await Danny if Peter had ultimate control of him, body and soul. 

Foot fairly to the floor, Jackson pushes for every ounce of speed, every second of time. 

__

As they pull up to the Hale house, Lydia and Stiles are both fully alert, seatbelts pulled to the limit. It's like having a pack of hounds that caught a scent. They tear past the rest of the pack, no time wasted on niceties. 

"They're looking for Danny," Jackson explains hurriedly as he follows in their wake. 

“Here?” Derek barks, but he looks sick to his stomach. Jackson remembers he was kept down here, beneath the ashes of his family home. Of course he wouldn’t wish the same thing on anyone else. And of course he would be aware of how easy it is to hide someone away in the cells once made to keep the humans safe from the wolves.

It makes so much sense. It fits all the dramatic stylings of Peter Hale. It feels right.

The pack thunders on the pairs heels, anxious to be there when they find Danny, to bring him back to the light. 

It dawns slowly that the cells are empty. 

They call Danny’s name and tumble against each other to search every room. 

They’re empty, all the rooms are empty, echoing in their emptiness. 

He’s not here.  
___

Reorganizing the search takes time. Stopping somehow means giving up. But, when Isaac starts searching behind doors and in stray shadows and Lydia looks into the same rooms again and again, that’s when it becomes obvious. Danny isn’t here.

They fan out from the house, walking the grid pattern as Stiles teaches them to. Being the son of a sheriff has more benefits than just a knowledge of police radio codes. 

If not here, then nearby, surely. 

The sun beats down on them, heat stifling all movement. It’s the kind of sunlight that enervates. It makes each step feel like it takes forever. Every scrap of progress seems meaningless. Marking off places Danny is not is a waste of time. 

Still they push on, until they’ve lost nearly all the light. 

It seems foreign, but school is tomorrow. And they can’t afford to miss something because they kept going long after they should have stopped. 

There’s a whisper in the back of his mind telling him that if they haven’t smelled anything, seen anything, heard anything, they won’t. Jackson is ignoring it. 

Still there’s nothing, not even at werewolf speed and with werewolf senses. 

Finally, the searchers make their way back to the Hale house. Chris Argent is back to where he started, like he never moved at all. He stand still far enough from the wall to make drawing his gun easy and with a clear line of sight on one Derek Hale. 

Derek has been reduced to a shell of the man he’d been around the pack. Everything is battened down, his back tense in a way that looks painful, and all expression beyond a careful blankness wiped cleanly off his face. Jackson has never wanted to poke him, to make his face jump out of that bleak look for one second, more in his life. He is not comfortable having feelings about Derek Hale. 

It’s Lydia who says what they’re all thinking, “We need to go to the police.”

“No,” Stiles says, already shaking his head. “We’re not involving people who don’t know about werewolves and won’t be able to protect themselves.” 

“We need their resources. Stiles-” Lydia grabs Stiles’ wrists as he tries to turn from what she’s saying. “We can’t send out APBs, we can’t track Danny, we need the police to tighten the net.”

“We’ll be there before they find them,” Jackson says. There are too many pronouns, but he figures Stiles will know what he means. 

“The alpha pack don’t care about humans or the police. It’s in their best interest to go unnoticed by the authorities,” Derek adds.

Chris Argent steps into the conversation. “I don’t approve of placing civilians in danger-”

“Thank you!” Stiles exclaims loudly, arms flailing in agreement.

“But Danny is human,” Argent continued, unperturbed. “Which means he is deserving of our protection.” 

Jackson tries very hard not to wonder if Scott, Isaac, Derek, Lydia, and he would be afforded the same treatment. 

“Fine,” Derek says. “Does that mean we have an alliance?”

“In this, at least, yes.”

“Then we need whoever you trust to keep to the code,” Derek says, ignoring Argent’s offered hand. “Can you accomplish that?”

“We’ll take care of it,” Allison interrupts, not so subtly pushing for her dad to leave before new tensions rise up. “In the meantime, nobody stays alone tonight and everybody goes home, got it? We can’t have anyone else appear missing.”

__

It's calmer with the Argents gone, as though everyone can finally breathe. Jackson sees Derek's shoulders relax minutely, even as Scott gets distracted, probably with thoughts of Allison.

"So how do we do this?" Jackson asks into the still tense silence. 

“Anonymous tip?” Lydia suggests.

“Yeah, anonymously we just saw someone who looks suspiciously like Danny Mahealani kidnapped by werewolves. That’s going to go over well.” Stiles is all sarcasm and sharp edges. 

“Aren’t you supposed to wait 24 hours or something anyway?,” Jackson asks, looking at Stiles meaningfully. 

"Nope, California has to take all tips 'without delay and will give priority to the handling of the report,' but if you'll notice Boyd and Erica are still missing, so-" Stiles shrugs. 

"It's about sending a message," Lydia says firmly. “And if you won’t do it, I will.”

“Use mine.” From the darkened corner he seems to have picked as his, Isaac flips a phone over to Lydia. She grabs it from the air, briefly glaring at him for making her put effort forth when she doesn’t want to, Jackson is sure. 

“Why yours?” Lydia asks, turning the cheap flip phone over in her hands. 

“Derek bought it for me, but it doesn’t trace back to either of us and we can ditch it afterwards.” Isaac shrugs, but he’s trying too hard to play it off as nonchalance. “I want to get him back, and it seems - as harebrained as this is - that it might work, so use it, and keep in touch, yeah?”

He doesn’t look back as he walks to Derek’s car and takes a seat on the passenger’s side. Jackson did never get a chance to talk to Danny about whatever the hell is up with him and Isaac. Fuck it, it is not too late, Jackson will make sure of it.

Derek examines their faces and nods once firmly before following after Isaac. 

____

It’s Lydia who calls of course, because Lydia is the one with the brains and the acting skills. Skills which she has mostly honed in her social career as queen bee. Still, the fear in her voice as she reports Danny’s kidnapping by Peter Hale and the best descriptions they could get for the alpha pack is too real for Jackson’s comfort. 

When the call’s done, Lydia removes the SD card and smashes it beneath her heel. Stiles pulls out and pockets the battery. Jackson holds onto the rest. He’ll ditch it in the next available trash can. And, no, he does not think they are being overly paranoid. There really are people out to get them, after all. 

Scott nods at them one last time, slaps Stiles on the back and takes off through the woods.

There’s one car for the three of them, and Jackson’s trying to figure out if he could convince Stiles to just wait until tomorrow to retrieve his jeep when Stiles’ pocket vibrates. The three of them jump at the noise, before acting like nothing surprised them. 

Jackson flips his keys around his knuckles and tries to avoid hearing Stiles’ dad telling him how he got called into work tonight. 

“Yeah, I’ll be fine, dad,” Stiles says. There’s a warble to his voice that might only be audible to werewolves. And kanimas. Jackson can’t help but remember Stiles’ voice when he commanded Jackson to not tell his father about this, all of this. 

Before he hangs up, Stiles adds, “Just-just be safe, okay?”

The sheriff grumbles a little bit about overprotectiveness, but the “I love you’s” they exchange are as heartfelt as Jackson has ever heard. 

Jackson tells himself he’s not jealous. 

Stiles is still quiet as they all climb into Jackson’s car. 

Jackson taps his fingers on the steering wheel trying to figure out how to start this conversation. Like always, Lydia is miles ahead of him. 

“Your parents?” she asks Jackson. 

“Taking time for themselves out of town on one of my foster mother’s business trips.” Jackson exaggeratedly wrinkles his nose. “Wanna come over?”

“You cooking?” 

Jackson nods and smiles as she nudges his shoulder affectionately. Lydia twists in her seat until she can see Stiles, who is sitting in the back seat staring out the window. 

“You should come, too,” she tells him. Jackson catches Stiles’ wide-eyed look in the rearview mirror. An instant later, Stiles changes it into a goofy grin.

“I’d hate to get in the way of a date night,” he jokes. 

Jackson frowns. There’s some kind of old hurt lurking underneath those words. Jackson doesn’t know how to respond, but his mouth is opening to say something, anything when Lydia elbows him in the side. 

“His cooking isn’t that bad,” Lydia grins right back at Stiles and god, Jackson wants this so bad. This, both of them. “And you shouldn’t be alone tonight.”

“Scott-” Stiles starts before Jackson interrupts him.

“Oh, c’mon. Like McCall is going to be anywhere besides Allison Argent’s bedroom tonight.”   
___

He makes them dinner. It's something that he's proud of, but as he pours each of them a glass of wine, he feels how fragile this lie is. Tonight, together, eating and drinking, Jackson can imagine them older. Finishing a meal, doing dishes together, arguing about whose turn it is to dry. Oddly domestic, all of these daydreams of his. There's a yearning there, and a stubborn sense that it will never come be. 

Beneath the roof belonging to parents Jackson refuses to claim as his, they are still so young, oppressed and freed by the weight of the house around them, the space they cannot possibly occupy on their own. They oscillate, ageless, too young and too old for what he desires now, watching Stiles and Lydia across the table. 

It's Lydia who finally breaks the comfortable silence with a jaw-cracking yawn she hides behind a delicate hand. "Come to bed?" she asks. Her hand is on Jackson's shoulder but her gaze is squarely directed at Stiles. 

"Or you can take the couch again if you want." Jackson will deny for forever that his voice cracks. 

"Come to bed, Stiles," Lydia says again, one hand raised in offering. There's too much history between Jackson and Stiles and Jackson and Lydia and Lydia and Stiles for anyone but her to make this move. But that's Lydia for you, once she makes up her mind about something. 

Stiles looks to Jackson, for confirmation, maybe, for reassurance certainly. Jackson can't muster a hint of smugness to save his life, and can't hide his naked desire either. 

"Please," Jackson breathes. 

"We want you," Lydia says. Another step and she takes Stiles' face in her hands. Jackson can see the way she searches for any doubt, any rejection, before she leans in for a kiss. 

Maybe she meant to start off delicately, chastely. But something about the way Lydia and Stiles fit together leads to Lydia grabbing fistfuls of Stiles' plaid shirt of the day, and Stiles sliding his hands to her waist. 

Jackson's drawn closer. One hand on Lydia's back and the other sweeping the hair across her neck aside, he leans in to kiss her nape. 

She moans into Stiles' mouth and that's when he pushes her away, back into Jackson's chest, breaking their kiss. 

The only sound in the ensuing silence is Stiles' breath, which shows no sign of slowing.

Jackson hooks his chin on Lydia's shoulder. "Hey, hey breathe, okay?"

Stiles smiles back crookedly. 

"We want you," Jackson says. There should be poetry and declarations and dramatic announcements. This is all he can offer and it's small and bare, nothing next to how much he wants this.

But, Stiles must want this, surely. Surely?

And then Stiles is kissing Lydia again, and he makes it something gentle and sacrosanct. 

Then it's their turn, the two of them and the feel of Stiles' lips on his. God, it makes it worth every torturous moment of oral fixation. Jackson meets Lydia’s eyes afterwards and she looks so damned satisfied, he has to bite that smile off her lips. She gasps in his mouth and it’s like that noise is the starting gun for a free-for-all. Jackson loses track of the individual kisses and touches for the pure sensation of warmth and affection and happiness.

Lydia leads them down a hallway, stopping for kisses and to slide palms down warm skin. 

They pile into the bed, hungry mouths and clever hands. 

It's perfect, it's better than he could have ever imagined. Jackson pulls away, so he can memorize this. Tuck the vision of Stiles' darkened eyes and flushed cheeks for later. 

"Come here," Stiles commands. Maybe it's supposed to be sexy, yet under its power Jackson can only follow Stiles' guiding hands. Jackson wants this absolutely, desperately, but not like this, never like this. He can feel the tears running to his cheeks as Lydia and Stiles kiss above his head. 

Stiles coaxes Jackson's head up for their own kiss. He stills at the trails of liquid visible in the little light. Jackson can see the way Stiles rewinds the last few moments. Jackson knows he got it right when he freezes, like he was turned to stone. 

"I gave you a command, didn't I?" Stiles speaks as one who already knows the truth. Lydia pulls Jackson back to her. 

Stiles stumbles his way off the bed. From the swift footsteps, Jackson might have thought he was running away, but another moment and Jackson can hear him retching in the bathroom. 

Lydia's at his side instantly. "This was a dumb idea," she whispers. 

"Yeah, you never get everything you want," he whispers right back.

Then Stiles is in the doorway. 

"I should-," he starts, rubbing his forehead. "I should go."

"Stay."

Stiles finally meets Jackson's eyes. It might be screwed up, they might be screwed up, but surely not for forever? They can fix this. Can't they?

"At least for tonight," Lydia adds. "Stay tonight."

Stiles sighs. "Nothing else can happen. Not till we figure this out."

"Until we figure this out," Lydia choruses and then leads them back to bed. 

Stiles has never been so close, or felt so far away- even when this was impossible. 

___

Danny isn't sure how long Peter is gone. He spends the time trying very hard not to catch anyone's attention. Also considering escape, but werewolves.

It's not Peter who gets back first, instead it's a gentleman using a cane as a guide. It seems odd to Danny, which may just mean he's getting too used to running around in the company of supernatural beings. Yet, as this guy proceeds to take off his sunglasses dramatically, he reveals cloudy eyes that still shine with the red of alphas. Oh, look, Danny’s instinct for supernatural creatures is still working.

“It seems there has been a bit of a mix-up. Peter, dear Peter has not quite held up his end of the bargain. I suggest you make yourself useful, because it seems your patron has fallen out of favor.” Having spoken, he settled down, both hands on top of his cane, obviously ready for a long wait. 

Danny is okay with ignoring him and not being addressed anymore. Also, Danny has no doubt that Peter is serving his own ineffable ends. Not that he plans on sharing this wisdom.

He is only halfway through ninety-nine bullets of wolfsbane I wish I could shoot at you when Peter arrives. 

He comes in looking a little bit the worse for wear. But not like a man seeking forgiveness or mercy.

No, Peter comes in with his own anger. 

“You told me you’d take care of the kanima,” Deucalion says, all frost and hidden menace. 

“And I will. The boy playing at master has latent magic. It was reasonable to determine how his own power might have warped the bond.”

“You ran away in defeat.”

“A strategic retreat only.”

“As part of the alpha pack, there is no retreat.”

Deucalion snapped his fingers. For a tense moment they waited for Danny didn’t know what. 

Deucalion frowned as though something had gone wrong. And Peter grinned, and that was a bad sign if Danny’d ever seen one. 

“Looking for something?” Peter asked pleasantly. “Because I don’t think you’ll be finding them anymore.”

His eyes glowed red and Danny swallowed harshly. 

“There’s some openings in your pack you need filled. Think of this as me sending in my application.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once more thanks to [ fightingtheblankpage ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fightingtheblankpage/pseuds/fightingtheblankpage) for betaing and handholding and listening to weird plot ideas while I tried to figure this puppy out. You're the best. Thanks for waiting this long for a chapter. You can find me on my [tumblr](http://walkquietlytreadsoftly.tumblr.com/).

**Author's Note:**

> This wouldn't have existed or been nearly as pretty without my beta, [fightingtheblankpage](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fightingtheblankpage/pseuds/fightingtheblankpage).
> 
> Come visit me on [tumblr](http://walkquietlytreadsoftly.tumblr.com)!
> 
> Title from the quote, "This [...] makes it easy to feel that any event, once underway, and whatever its moral character, should be allowed to complete itself--so that something else can be brought into the world [...] Photographing is essentially an act of non-intervention." by Susan Sontag


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